itt  oia 


JHS 

• 


GIFT   OF 


/v 

/ <U4.4Ui 


POEMS 


NARRATIVE   AND    LYRICAL 


POEMS 


NARRATIVE  AND  LYRICAL, 


BY 


WILLIAM    MOTHERWELL. 


THIRD    EDITION. 


BOSTON: 

WILLIAM    D,    TICKNOR   &    COMPANY, 

MDCCCXLIV. 


PRINTED   BY   GEORGE    COOLIl)Gi:. 

5C  Washington,  Street.      , 


PREFACE 

TO    THE   AMERICAN   EDITION. 


How  such  a  genuine  literary  treasure  as  Mother-well's  Poems 
should  have  so  long  escaped  the  notice  of  publishers,  ever  on  the 
lookout  for  what  they  may  appropriate  and  again  lucratively 
disperse, —  how  so  rare  an  exotic  should  have  heen  until  now 
neglected  in  the  daily  indiscriminate  transplantation  of  so  many 
fruit-bearing  and  barren  trees, —  of  choice  flowers  and  unsightly 
weeds,  is  difficult  to  explain;  but  so  it  has  been.  From  this 
circumstance,  and  the  scarcity  of  the  only  edition  ever  published, 
these  poems  are  known  to  but  few,  or  if  to  many,  only  to  a 
partial  extent,  from  occasional  reprints  in  newspapers  of  the 
day  5  and  of  their  great  merit, —  a  merit  sufficient  to  place  them 
among  the  choicest  productions  of  their  class, —  the  literary 
public  are  mostly  ignorant.  Varied  in  style  and  subject,  the 
author  seems  always  at  home  and  at  ease ;  whether  he  sings  of 
love  or  battle,  he  is  equally  in  spirit ;  his  poetry  is  the  same  full 
stream,  whether  it  flow  quietly  amid  myrtle  groves  or  foam 
along  a  battle-field,  bearing  upon  its  bosom  a  Norseman's  fleet. 
In  his  Scandinavian  poetry  the  spirit  of  an  ancient  Scald  seems 
in  truth  to  peal  forth.  The  notes  are  not  those  of  a  soft  lute 
from  silken  string  or  silver  wire,  but  are  tones  wrung  from  one 
of  their  own  rude  harps,  sinew-strung,  whose  measures  are 
marked  by  the  sword-struck  shield,  and  whose  pauses  are  filled 


L1361 


11  PREFACE. 

by  the  shout  of  the  warriors  or  the  roar  of  the  keel-cleft  wave. 
The  selection  of  the  pure  Saxon,  and  the  perfect  adaptation  of 
its  rich,  full  accents  to  the  sense  in  '  The  Battle-Flag  of  Sigurd,' 
and  '  The  Sword  Chant  of  Thorstein  Raudi,'  is  particularly 
admirahle,  and  the  thorough  manner  in  which  the  author  enters 
into  the  untutored  spirit  of  the  Norse  Warrior  in  '  The  Wooing 
Song  of  Jarl  Egill  Skallagrim,'  is  equally  worthy  of  note.  The 
Scandinavian  Sea- King  does  not  come  like  a  modern  lover,  filled 
with  protestations  of  his  own  unworthiness.  Hear  his  manly 
confidence ; 

'  Ay,  Daughter  of  Einar, 
Right  tall  mayst  thou  stand, 
It  is  a  Vikingir 
Who  kisses  thy  hand.' 

He  offers  no  flowers,  he  promises  no  rich  jewels;  — 

'  Gifts  yet  more  princely 

Jarl  Egill  bestows, 

For  girdle  his  great  arm 

Around  thee  he  throws  ; 

The  bark  of  a  sea-king 

For  palace,  gives  he, 

While  mad  waves  and  winds  shall 

Thy  true  subjects  be.' 

To  the  last,  no  puling  sentiment,  —  no  unmanly  flattery  escapes 
his  lips.  He  neither  compares  her  to  a  gem  or  a  flower,  nor 
exalts  her  to  an  angel  or  divinity ;  hut  tells  her 

'  Fair  Daughter  of  Einar 
Deem  high  of  the  fate 
That  makes  thee,  like  this  blade, 
Proud  Egill's  loved  mate.' 


PREFACE. 


iii 


The  remarks  of  the  author  in  the  dedication,  concerning  the 
knowledge  of  Norse  poetry,  do  not  justly  apply  in  this  country, 
as  it  is  but  lately  that  our  attention  has  been  turned  to  it,  princi- 
pally through  productions  and  translations  of  professor  Long- 
fellow. It  was  therefore  at  first  contemplated  adding  a  glossary 
to  this  edition ;  but  it  was  found,  that  to  the  imitation  of  the  old 
Scottish  ballad,  almost  a  verbatim  translation  would  have  to  be 
given,  increasing  the  size  of  the  book  unduly.  Besides  this, 
much  danger  would  be  incurred  of  insulting  many  readers  by 
explanations  of  words,  which,  although  seldom  met  with  in  gen- 
eral use,  might,  from  their  particular  course  of  reading,  be  quite 
familiar ;  so  that  the  same  conclusion  was  arrived  at  to  which  the 
author  himself  had  previously  come,  —  to  leave  it  as  it  is,  and 
trust  that  the  interest  which  the  reader  will  take  in  what  he 
does  understand,  will  induce  him  to  seek  for  the  easily  attained 
explanation  of  what  he  may  not. 

*  '  Of '  Jeanie  Morrison,'  '  Wearie's  Well,'  and  '  My  Heid  is  like 
to  rend,  Willie,'  it  were  idle  now  to  speak ;  they  are  amongst  the 
most  pathetic  effusions  of  the  Scottish  muse  —  full  of  a  soft  volup- 
tuous tenderness  of  feeling,  and  steeped  in  a  rich  tissue  of  warm 
poetical  coloring,  like  a  transparent  veil  over  a  weeping  beauty. 
In  another  style  of  poetical  composition,  Motherwell  has  rarely 
been  excelled  —  the  sentimental  and  graceful  vers  de  so ciet6.  Of 
such  are  '  Love's  Diet,' '  Could  love  impart,'  &c.  In  a  light  air- 
iness, and  graceful  flexibility  of  language,  and  in  a  pointed  but 
not  harsh  brevity  of  diction,  in  unison  with  a  certain  gaiety  and 
feminine  elegance  of  thought,  they  appear  to  us  to  be  perfect  of 
their  kind. 

'  The  events  in  the  life  and  fortunes  of  a  man  of  letters,  are 
seldom  of  so  salient  a  character,  or  of  such  a  stimulating  variety, 


*  The  following  paragraphs  are  from  '  The  Laird  of  Logan,  or  Anecdotes 
and  Tales  illustrative  of  the  Wit  and  Humor  of  Scotland,'  to  which  Mother- 
well  contributed. 


v  PREFACE. 

as  to  form  the  basis  of  a  narrative,  the  interest  of  which  will 
extend  beyond  the  circle  of  his  more  intimate  friends  and  asso- 
ciates. 

'Mr.  Motherwell  was  born  in  the  city  of  Glasgow,  on  the  13th 
of  October,  1797.  His  family  came  from  Stirlingshire,  where 
they  resided  for  several  generations,  on  a  small  property  belong- 
ing to  them,  called  Muirmill.  Early  in  life  he  was  transferred  to 
the  care  of  an  uncle  in  Paisley.  "There  he  received  the  principal 
part  of  a  rather  liberal  education,  and  there  he  began  the  career 
of  a  citizen  of  the  world,  as  an  apprentice  to  the  profession  of 
law.  So  great  was  the  confidence  reposed  in  him,  that  at  the 
early  age  of  twenty-one  he  was  appointed  Sheriff- Clerk-Depute 
at  Paisley  —  a  situation  veiy  respectable,  and  of  considerable 
responsibility,  though  by  no  means  lucrative.  In  1828,  he  became 
editor  of  the  Paisley  Advertiser,  a  journal  wherein  he  zealously 
advocated  Tory  politics,  to  which  he  had  long  previously  shown 
his  attachment.  During  the  same  year,  he  conducted  the  Pais- 
ley Magazine  —  a  periodical  of  local  as  well  as  general  interest, 
and  which  contained  many  papers  of  a  rare  and  curious  charac- 
ter. In  1829,  he  resigned  the  office  of  Sheriff- Clerk-Depute,  and 
applied  himself  exclusively  to  the  management  of  the  newspaper, 
and  to  literary  pursuits. 

'  In  the  beginning  of  1830,  he  appeared  on  a  more  important 
theatre,  and  in  a  more  conspicuous  character.  He  was  engaged 
as  editor  of  the  Glasgow  Courier  —  a  journal  of  long  standing, 
of  respectable  circulation,  and  of  the  Ultra- Tory  school  of  poli- 
tics. Mr.  Motherwell  conducted  this  newspaper  with  great  abil- 
ity, and  fully  sustained,  if  he  did  not  at  times  outgo,  its  extreme 
opinions.  From  the  time  of  his  accepting  this  very  responsible 
situation,  to  the  day  of  his  death  —  a  period  of  five  eventful  and 
troubled  years  —  during  which  the  fever  of  party  politics  raged 
with  peculiar  virulence  in  the  veins  of  society,  it  is  universally 
conceded,  by  those  who  were  opposed  to  his  political  opinions, 
as  well  as  by  the  members  of  his  own  party,  that  he  sustained 


PREFACE.  V 

his  views  with  singular  ability  and  indomitable  firmness ;  and 
if,  at  times,  with  a  boldness  and  rough  energy,  both  rash  and 
unwise,  the  obvious  sincerity  and  personal  feeling  of  the  writer 
elevated  him  far  above  the  suspicion  of  being  actuated  by  vulgar 
or  mercenary  motives.  Motherwell  was  of  small  stature,  but 
very  stout  and  muscular  in  body  —  accompanied,  however,  with 
a  large  head,  and  a  short  thick  neck  and  throat  —  the  precise 
character  of  physical  structure  the  most  liable  to  the  fatal  access 
of  the  apoplectic  stroke.  Accompanied  by  a  literary  friend,  on 
the  first  of  November,  1835,  he  had  been  dining  in  the  country, 
about  a  couple  of  miles  from  Glasgow,  and,  on  his  return  home, 
feeling  indisposed,  he  went  to  bed.  In  a  few  hours  thereafter  be 
awakened,  and  complained  of  pain  in  the  head,  which  increased 
so  much  as  to  render  him  speechless.  Medical  assitance  was 
speedily  obtained;  but,  alas!  it  was  of  no  avail  —  the  blow  was 
struck,  and  the  curtain  had  finally  fallen  over  the  life  and  for- 
tunes of  William  Motherwell. —  One  universal  feeling  of  regret 
and  sympathy  seemed  to  extend  over  society,  when  the  sudden 
and  premature  decease  of  this  accomplished  poet,  and  ele- 
gant writer,  became  known.  His  funeral  wras  attended  by  a 
large  body  of  the  citizens,  by  the  most  eminent  of  the  learned 
and  literary  professions,  and  by  persons  of  all  shades  of  political 
opinion.  He  was  interred  in  the  Ne'cropolis  of  Glasgow,  not  far 
from  the  resting-place  of  his  fast  friend,  Mr.  Andrew  Henderson ; 
and  the  writer  of  this  brief  memoir  will  long  remember  the  feel- 
ings of  deep  regret  with  which  he  beheld  the  long  procession  of 
mourners  winding  its  way  up  the  steep  ascents  of  that  romantic 
place  of  graves,  with  the  mortal  remains  of  his  private  and  liter- 
ary friend,  although  firm  political  opponent. 

'  For  the  information  of  such  of  our  readers  as  are  not  ac- 
quainted with  the  locality,  we  may  mention,  that  the  place  of 
his  sepulture  is  well  fitted  for  the  grave  of  a  poet.  It  is  a  small 
piece  of  level  ground,  above  which  bold  masses  of  rock,  crowned 
with  trees  and  shrubs  of  various  kinds,  ascend  to  a  considerable 


VI  PREFACE. 

height ;  and  below,  the  broken  ground,  richly  wooded,  and  brist- 
ling with  monumental  columns  and  other  erections,  slopes  beau- 
tifully down  to  the  banks  of  a  small  lake  or  dam,  terminated  by  a 
weir,  over  which  its  waters  foam  and  fret  at  all  seasons  of  the  year. 

'  We  hope,  ere  long,  that  some  memorial  of  our  gifted  friend  will 
rise  amid  these  congenial  shades  (where  some  of  the  best  dust 
in  Glasgow  now  reposes,)  to  refresh  the  eye  of  friendship,  and  tell 
the  wandering  stranger  of  '  the  inhabitant  who  sleeps  below.' 

'  In  the  year  1827,  whilst  at  Paisley,  he  published  his  '  Min- 
strelsy, Ancient  and  Modern'  —  a  work  which  raised  him  at 
once  to  a  high  rank  as  a  literary  antiquarian.  The  introduction, 
a  long  and  singularly  interesting  document,  exhibits  the  writer's 
extensive  acquaintance  with  the  history  of  the  ballad  and  roman- 
tic literature  of  Scotland  —  and  independent  of  its  merits  as  a 
historical  and  critical  disquisition,  is  in  itself  a  piece  of  chaste 
and  elegant  composition,  and  vigorous  writing.  Soon  after  that 
he  became  editor  of  the  Paisley  Magazine,  and  contributed 
some  of  the  sweetest  effusions  of  his  muse  to  enrich  its  pages  — 
effusions  which  now  began  to  interest  and  concentrate  the  public 
attention,  until,  in  1832,  a  volume  of  his  poems  was  published 
by  Mr.  David  Robertson,  Glasgow,  which  fully  established  his 
reputation  as  one  of  the  sweet  singers  of  his  native  land.  A  few 
months  previous  to  the  publication  of  his  poems,  another  proof 
of  the  fertile  versatility  of  his  genius  was  afforded  in  an  elaborate 
and  able  preface,  which  he  contributed,  to  enrich  a  collection  of 
Scottish  Proverbs  by  his  friend  Mr.  Andrew  Henderson.  In  this 
essay.  Motherwell  exhibited  a  profound  acquaintance  with  the 
proverbial  antiquities  of  Scotland,  and  a  fine  and  delicate  tact  in 
the  management  of  a  somewhat  difficult  subject.  The  style  is 
equally  elegant  and  vigorous,  and  shows  him  a  master  of  prose, 
as  of  poetic  composition.  In  1836,  an  edition  of  the  works  of 
Robert  Burns,  in  five  volumes,  was  published,  edited  by  him,  in 
conjunction  with  the  Ettrick  Shepherd.  A  considerable  part  of 
the  life,  with  a  large  amount  of  notes,  critical  and  illustrative, 


PREFACE.  V 

were  supplied  by  Motherwell,  with  his  usual  ability  and  copious 
knowledge  of  his  subject:  but  literary  partnerships  are  seldom 
very  fortunate  in  their  consequences,  and  this  was  not  fated  to 
be  an  especial  example  of  a  contrary  result. 

'Mr.  Motherwell  was  also  a  considerable  contributor  to  the 
literary  periodical  —  'The  Day'  —  of  which  due  mention  has 
already  been  made,  and  which,  for  some  time,  commanded  a 
brilliant  range  of  western  talent.  His  memoirs  of  Bailie  Pirnie 
formed  one  of  the  most  amusing  and  masterly  papers  in  that 
journal.  It  is  understood  he  left  behind  a  considerable  amount 
of  manuscript  5  and,  amongst  other  matter,  a  work  embodying 
the  wild  legends  of  the  ancient  northern  nations  —  a  department 
of  antiquarian  research  to  which  he  was  much  devoted.*  It  is 
to  be  hoped,  that  a  selection  at  least  from  these  manuscripts  will 
be  laid  before  the  public,  as  an  act  of  justice  to  his  memory. 

'  In  mixed  society,  Motherwell  was  rather  reserved,  but  ap- 
peared to  enjoy  internally  '  the  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of 
soul,'  amongst  his  intimate  friends  and  associates,  who  were  but 
few  in  number.  Amongst  these,  the  principal  were  David  Carrick 
and  Andrew  Henderson.  Opposite  as  in  most  respects  were  the 
characters  and  pursuits  of  these  three  individuals,  a  certain  com- 
munity of  taste  and  feeling  formed  a  bond  of  union  amongst  them : 
and  it  was  rather  amusing  to  observe,  how  their  comparatively  neu* 
tralizing  qualities  dovetailed  so  naturally  and  finely  into  each  oth* 
er,  as  to  form  a  harmonious  concord.  The  constitutional  reserve 
and  silent  habits  of  Motherwell  —  the  quiet  drollery  and  sly  hu-r 
mour  of  Carrick  —  with  the  irritable  and  somewhat  explosive  abr 
ruptness  of  Henderson,  formed  a  melange,  so  happily  constituted, 
and  so  bizarre  frequently  in  its  results,  that  those  who  had  access 
to  their  frequent  symposia,  will  long  remember  the  richness  of 
the  cordial  and  original  compound.  There  was  a  depth  of  characr 

c  *  A  portion  of  this,  under  the  title  of  '  The  Doomed  Nine,  or  the  Langbein 
Riters,'  appeared  in  the  Paisley  Magazine,  pp.  60  and  346.' 


V  PREFACE. 

ter,  however,  in  Motherwell,  which  placed  him  naturally  at  the 
head  of  this  firm  fellowship ;  and  though  apparently  the  least  mo- 
tive of  the  party,  his  opinions  on  most  points,  with  his  tastes  and 
wishes,  w~ere  generally  a  law  to  the  others.' 

Even  with  this  limited  knowledge,  a  reader  of  these  poems 
cannot  help  acquiring  an  unusual  interest  in  the  author;  and 
he  irresistibly  feels  that  it  is  no  feigned  cry,  but  the  genuine 
groans  of  a  deeply  wounded  spirit,  that  he  hears  in  '  O  Agony ! 
keen  Agony!'  —  that  it  is  the  true  sentiment  that  sighs  forth 
in  'Mournfully!  O  Mournfully,'  —  that  it  is  the  waywardness 
of  the  writer  himself  that  exclaims, '  Sing  high,  sing  low,  thou 
moody  wind,'  —  and  his  own  disappointed  hopes  that  try  to 
buoy  themselves  up  by  asking  'What  is  Glory?  What  is 
Fame  ? '  —  or  talking  so  resignedly  of  '  The  darkness  of  a 
nameless  tomb;'  and  this  feeling  is  still  increased  by  the  pe- 
rusal of  the  poem  which  concludes  this  volume,  and  which  is 
now  for  the  first  time  published  in  this  form,  —  a  poem  touching 
in  itself,  but  rendered  still  more  so  when  known  to  have  been 
found  upon  his  desk  just  after  his  death. 


TO 


WILLIAM  KENNEDY,  ESQ. 


MY  DEAR  KENNEDY, 

At  the  suggestion  of  some  mutual  friends,  I  have  been 
induced  to  collect  these  stray  verses  of  mine  into  a  volume, 
which  I  have  now  the  pleasure  of  dedicating  to  you,  as  a  memo- 
rial of  earlier  days,  and  of  my  unaltered  feelings  of  friendship  and 
esteem  for  you. 

I  have  been  told  that  several  of  the  pieces,  in  order  to  be  intel- 
ligible to  the  general  reader,  required  the  aid  of  notes.  To  the 
critical  opinion  of  others,  I  am  always  inclined  to  defer;  but  to 
have  loaded  a  volume  of  such  slender  dimensions  as  the  present, 
with  historical  annotation,  would,  I  think,  have  gone  far  to  mar 
its  appearance  as  a  book,  as  well  as  to  have  given  it  an  air  of 
pedantry,  which  I  dislike. 

In  this  I  may  be  wrong;  but  according  to  my  apprehension,  the 
only  pieces  in  the  volume  which  need  the  desiderated  illustration, 
are  the  first  three.  These,  I  may  mention,  are  intended  to  be  a 
faint  shadowing  forth  of  something  like  the  form  and  spirit  of 
Norse  poetiy ;  but  all  that  is  historical  about  them  is  contained, 
in  the  proper  names.  The  first, '  Sigurd's  Battle-Flag,'  does  not 
follow  the  story  as  given  in  the  Nothern  Sagas,  but  only  adopts 
the  incident  of  the  Magic  Standard,  which  carries  victory  to  the 
party  by  whom  it  is  displayed,  but  certain  death  to  its  bearer. 

'  Jarl  Egill  Skallagrim's  Wooing  Song '  is  entirely  a  creation, 
and  nothing  of  it  is  purely  historical,  save  the  preserving  of  the 
name  of  that  warrior  and  Skald.  From  the  memorials,  however, 


X  DEDICATION. 

he  has  left  us  of  himself,  I  think  he  could  not  well  have  wooed 
in  a  different  fashion  from  that  which  I  have  chosen  to  describe. 
As  for '  Thorstein  Raudi,'  or  the  red,  that  is  a  name  which  occurs 
in  No  them  history ;  but,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  he  never  said 
so  much  in  all  his  life  about  his  sword  or  himself,  as  I  have  taken 
the  fancy  of  putting  into  his  mouth.  The  allusions  made  to 
Northern  mythology,  are  or  should  be,  familiar  to  almost  every  one. 

The  Scottish  words  and  Scottish  mode  of  orthography,  adopt- 
ed in  a  few  other  little  pieces,will,  I  dare  say,  be  quite  intelligi- 
ble even  to  English  readers.  They  have  been  long  familiar- 
ized with  our  vernacular  dialect,  through  the  writings  of  Burns 
and  Scott ;  and  if  they  cannot  yet  master  its  difficulties,  all  that 
can  reasonably  be  said  of  them  is,  that  they  are  very  unapt 
scholars. 

And  now,  my  dear  Kennedy,  having  made  these  explanations  for 
the  satisfaction  of  the  courteous  and  gentle  reader,  I,  in  the  fulness 
of  a  friendly  heart,  inscribe  this  volume  to  you,  as  an  earnest  of 
the  admiration  I  entertain  for  your  genius,  and  as  a  tribute  of  my 
unabated  affection  and  friendship  towards  you,  amidst  all  the 
vicissitudes  and  turmoil  of  this  weary  life.  I  wish  I  could  with 
any  degree  of  modesty,  apply  to  it  the  title  of  an  old  poetical  mis- 
cellany, and  characterize  it  as  '  A  posie  of  gelly  flowers,  eche  dif- 
fering from  other  in  color  and  odor  yet  all  swete.'  This  may  not 
be.  As  it  is,  however,  you  have  it  5  and  with  it,  the  sincere 
regard  of 

Your  old  and  affectionate  friend, 

W.   MOTHERWELL. 

GLASGOW,  OCT.  13, 1832. 


CONTENTS. 


The  Battle  Flag  of  Sigurd,        .        »       .    *  .        .        .   '  15 

The  Wooing  Song  of  Jarl  Egill  Skallagrim,          .        .        .  26 

The  Sword  Chant  of  Thorstein  Raudi,     .        .        .        .'  34 

Jeanie  Morrison, » 39 

My  Heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie,        . .      ....      ,'.        .  44 

The  Madman's  Love, 48 

Halbert the  Grim,       .        .      .  .  '  *V.     ...   „    .        .        .  66 

True  Love's  Dirge, 71 

The  Demon  Lady, .        .        .        .  76 

Zara,     .  .      . .     . .        &MI  •'.  .        .  80 

Ouglou's  Onslaught,         .  .      ,. H  .  !     v\-  \  83 

Elfinland  Wud, 88 

Midnight  and  Moonshiner 94 

The  Water!  the  Water! 100 

Three  Fanciful  Supposes,        . .   ,: 104 

Caveat  to  the  Wind,       .      .  .     j r'>-.'0»l  V  .        .  106 

What  is  Glory  ?    What  ia  Fame  ?      .     ,*•  v?  oi  ,r:>  !  ^£ v*  -. !  109 
The  Solemn  Song  of  a  Righteous  Hearte,    .        .        .        .111 

Melancholye, ,:i-      .  115 

I  am  not  sad,           . il  i*c.I  »  119 

The  Joys  of  the  Wilderness, *    ^.n,  .  123 

A  Solemn  Conceit,        .....        .        .        .        .        .  125 

The  Expatriated, 128 

Facts  from  Fairyland,    .        ,:-sr'./l..',      .  131 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

TA.ti-3. 

Certain  Pleasant  Verses, 134 

Beneath  a  Placid  Brow, 137 

The  Covenanters'  Battle  Chant,        .  139 

Tim  the  Tacket, 142 

The  Witches'  Joys, 147 

A  Sabbath  Summer  Noon, 152 

A  Monody, „  158 

They  Come !  the  Merry  Summer  Months,    ....  163 

Change  sweepeth  over  all, 166 


SONGS. 

O,  Wae  be  to  the  Orders, 171 

.  Wearie's  Well, 173 

Song  of  the  Danish  Sea-king, 176 

-^The  Cavalier's  Song, 179 

The  Merry  Gallant, 181 

The  Knight's  Song, 183 

SThe  Trooper's  Ditty, 185 

He  is  gone  !  He  is  gone ! 188 

->The  Foresters  Carol, 190 

May-Morn  Song, 192 

The  Bloom  hath  fled  thy  cheek,  Mary,  .  .  .  .  194 

In  the  quiet  and  solemn  Night, 197 

The  Voice  of  Love, 199 

Away !  away !  O,  do  not  say, 201 

O,  Agony !  keen  Agony ! 203 

The  Serenade, 204 

Could  Love  impart,  . 207 

The  Parting, 209 

Love's  Diet, 211 

The  Midnight  Wind, 213 

Lines  to  a  Friend, 215 


POEMS 


>  ^>  )  )    »  ')')'>) 


POEMS. 


THE    BATTLE-FLAG    OF    SIGURD. 


THE  eagle  hearts  of  all  the  North 

Have  left  their  stormy  strand ; 

The  warriors  of  the  world  are  forth 

To  choose  another  land  ! 

Again,  their  long  keels  sheer  the  wave, 

Their  broad  sheets  court  the  breeze ; 

Again,  the  reckless  and  the  brave, 

Ride  lords  of  weltering  seas. 

Nor  swifter  from  the  well-bent  bow 

Can  feathered  shaft  be  sped, 

Than  o'er  the  oceans  flood  of  snow 

Their  snorting  galleys  tread. 

Then  lift  the  can  to  bearded  lip, 

And  smite  each  sounding  shield, 


18  THE     BATTLE-FLAG 

On  Scandia's  lonest,  bleakest  waste, 

Beneath  a  starless  sky, 

The  Shadowy  Three  like  meteors  passed, 

And  bade  young  Harald  die ;  — 

They  sang  the  war-deeds  of  his  sires, 

And  pointed  to  their  tomb ; 

They  told  him  that  this  glory-flag 

Was  his  by  right  of  doom. 

Since  then,  where  hath  young  Harald  been, 

But  where  Jarl's  son  should  be  ? 

'Mid  war  and  waves, —  the  combat  keen 

That  raged  on  land  or  sea ! ' 
So  sings  the  fierce  Harald,  the  thirster  for  glory, 
As  his  hand  bears  aloft  the  dark  death-laden  banner. 

v. 

'  Mine  own  death 's  in  this  clenched  hand ; 
I  know  the  noble  tnist ; 
These  limbs  must  rot  on  yonder  strand, — 
These  lips  must  lick  its  dust, 
But  shall  this  dusky  standard  quail 
In  the  red  slaughter-day ; 
Or  shall  this  heart  its  purpose  fail, — 
This  arm  forget  to  slay  ? 


OF     S  I  GU  RD.  19 

I  trample  down  such  idle  doubt ; 

Harald's  high  blood  hath  sprung 

From  sires  whose  hands  in  martial  bout 

Have  ne'er  belied  their  tongue ; 

Nor  keener  from  their  castled  rock 

Hush  eagles  on  their  prey, 

Than,  panting  for  the  battle-shock, 

Young  Harald  leads  the  way.' 
It  is  thus  that  tall  Harald,  in  terrible  beauty, 
Pours  forth  his  big  soul  to  the  joyaunce  of  heroes. 

VI. 

*  The  ship -borne  warriors  of  the  North, 
The  sons  of  Woden's  race, 
To  battle  as  to  feast  go  forth, 
With  stern,  and  changeless  face ; 
And  I  the  last  of  a  great  line, — 
The  Self-devoted,  long 
To  lift  on  high  the  Runic  sign 
Which  gives  my  name  to  song. 
In  battle-field  young  Harald  falls 
Amid  a  slaughtered  foe, 
But  backward  never  bears  this  flag, 
While  streams  to  ocean  flow;  — 


20  THE     BATTLE-FLAG 

On,  on  above  the  crowded  dead 

This  Runic  scroll  shall  flare, 

And  round  it  shall  the  lightnings  spread, 

From  swords  that  never  spare.' 

So  rush  the  hero-words  from  the  Death-doomed  one, 
While  Skalds  harp  aloud  the  renown  of  his  fathers. 

VII. 

'  Flag !  from  your  folds,  and  fiercely  wake 
War-music  on  the  wind, 
Lest  tenderest  thoughts  should  rise  to  shake 
The  sternness  of  my  mind ; 
Brynhilda,  maiden  meek  and  fair, 
Pale  watcher  by  the  sea, 
I  hear  thy  waitings  on  the  air, 
Thy  heart's  dirge  sung  for  me :  — 
In  vain  thy  milk-white  hands  are  wrung 
Above  the  salt  sea  foam ; 
The  wave  that  bears  me  from  thy  bower, 
Shall  never  bear  me  home ; 
Brynhilda !  seek  another  love, 
But  ne'er  wed  one  like  me, 
Who  death  foredoomed  from  above 
Joys  in  his  destiny/ 


OF     S  I  G  U  RD.  21 

Thus    mourned  young    Harold   as   he   thought  on 

Brynhilda, 
While  his  eyes  filled  with  tears  which  glittered,  but 

fell  not 

VIII. 

4  On  sweeps  Sigurdir's  battle-flag, 
The  scourge  of  far  from  shore ; 
It  dashes  through  the  seething  foam, 
But  I  return  no  more ! 
Wedded  unto  a  fatal  bride,  — 
Boune  for  a  bloody  bed,  — 
And  battling  for  her,  side  by  side, 
Young  Harald's  doom  is  sped ! 
In  starkest  fight,  where  kemp  on  kemp 
Reel  headlong  to  the  grave, 
There  Harald's  axe  shall  ponderous  ring, 
There  Sigurd's  flag  shall  wave ;  — 
Yes,  underneath  this  standard  tall, 
Beside  this  fateful  scroll, 
Down  shall  the  tower-like  prison  fall 
Of  Harald's  haughty  soul.' 

So  sings  the  Death  seeker,  while  nearer  and  nearer 
The  fleet  of  the  Northmen  bears  down  to  the  shore. 


22  THE     BATTLE-FLAG 

IX. 

'  Green  lie  those  thickly  timbered  shores 

Fair  sloping  to  the  sea ; 

They  're  cumbered  with  the  harvest  stores 

That  wave  but  for  the  free : 

Our  sickle  is  the  gleaming  sword, 

Our  garner  the  broad  shield, — 

Let  peasants  sow,  but  still  he 's  lord 

Who 's  master  of  the  field ; 

Let  them  come  on,  the  bastard-born, 

Each  soil-stain'd  churle !  —  alack ! 

What  gain  they  but  a  splitten  skull, 

A  sod  for  their  base  back  ? 

They  sow  for  us  these  goodly  lands, 

We  reap  them  in  our  might, 

Scorning  all  title  but  the  brands 

That  triumph  in  the  fight!' 

It  was  thus  the  land-winners  of  old  gained  their  glory, 
And  gray  sto  nes  voiced  their  praise  in  the  bays  of  far 
isles. 

x. 

'  The  rivers  of  yon  island  low, 
Glance  redly  in  the  sun, 


OFSIGURD.  23 

But  ruddier  still  they  're  doomed  to  glow, 

And  deeper  shall  they  run ; 

The  torrent  of  proud  life  shall  swell 

Each  river  to  the  brim, 

And  in  that  spate  of  blood,  how  well 

The  headless  corpse  will  swim ! 

The  smoke  of  many  a  shepherd's  cot 

Curls  from  each  peopled  glen : 

And,  hark !  the  song  of  maidens  mild, 

The  shout  of  joyous  men ! 

But  one  may  hew  the  oaken  tree, 

The  other  shape  the  shroud ; 

As  the  LANDEYDA  o'er  the  sea 

Sweeps  like  a  tempest  cloud : '  — 
So  shouteth  fierce  Harald, — so  echo  the  Northmen, 
As  shoreward  their  ships  like  mad  steeds  are  careering. 

XI. 

.  *  Sigurdir  s  battle-flag  is  spread 
Abroad  to  the  blue  sky, 
And  spectral  visions  of  the  dead, 
Are  trooping  grimly  by ; 
The  spirit  heralds  rush  before 
Harold's  destroying  brand, 


2-1  THE     BATTLE-FLAG- 

They  hover  o'er  yon  fated  shore 

And  death-devoted  band. 

Marshal  stout  Jarls  your  battle  fast ! 

And  fire  each  beacon  height, 

Our  galleys  anchor  in  the  sound, 

Our  banners  heave  in  sight ! 

And  through  the  surge  and  arrowy  shower 

That  rains  on  this  broad  shield, 

Harald  uplifts  the  sign  of  power 

Which  rules  the  battle-field !' 
So  cries  the  Death-doomed  on  the  red  strand  of 

slaughter, 
While  the  helmets  of  heroes  like  anvils  are  ringing. 

XII. 

On  rolled  the  Northmen's  war,  above 
The  Raven  Standard  flew, 
Nor  tide  nor  tempest  ever  strove 
With  vengeance  half  so  true. 
'Tis  Harald,  —  'tis  the  Sire  bereaved, — 
Who  goads  the  dread  career, 
And  high  amid  the  flashing  storm 
The  flag  of  Doom  doth  rear. 
'  On,  on,'  the  tall  Death-seeker  cries, 


OF     SIGURD.  25 

'  These  earth  worms  soil  our  heel, 
Their  spear-points  crash  like  crisping  ice 
On  ribs  of  stubborn  steel ! ' 
Hurra !  hurra !  their  whirlwinds  sweep, 
And  Harald's  fate  is  sped ; 
Bear  on  the  flag  —  he  goes  to  sleep 
With  the  life-scorning  dead. 

Thus  fell  the  young  Harald,  as  of  old  fell  his  sires, 
And  the  bright  hall  of  heroes  bade  hail  to  his  spirit. 


THE  WOOING  SONG  OF  JARL  EGILL 
SKALLAGRIM. 


BRIGHT  maiden  of  Orkney, 
Star  of  the  blue  sea ! 
I've  swept  o'er  the  waters 
To  gaze  upon  thee ; 
I  've  left  spoil  and  slaughter, 
I  Ve  left  a  far  strand, 
To  sing  how  I  love  thee, 
To  kiss  thy  small  hand ! 
Fair  daughter  of  Einar, 
Golden-haired  maid ! 
The  lord  of  yon  brown  bark, 
And  lord  of  this  blade  ; 
The  joy  of  the  ocean,  — 
Of  warfare  and  wind, 
Hath  boune  him  to  woo  thee, 
And  thou  must  be  kind. 
So  stoutly  Jarl  Egill  wooed  Torf  Einar's  daughter. 


JARL     EGILL     J5KALLAGRIM,  21 

In  Jutland,  —  in  Iceland,  — 
On  Neustria's  shore, 
Where'er  the  dark  billow 
My  gallant  bark  bore, 
Songs  spoke  of  thy  beauty, 
Harps  sounded  thy  praise, 
And  my  heart  loved  thee  long  ere 
It  thrilled  in  thy  gaze : 
Ay,  Daughter  of  Einar, 
Right  tall  mayst  thou  stand, 
It  is  a  Vikingir 
Who  kisses  thy  hand : 
It  is  a  Vikingir 
That  bends  his  proud  knee, 
And  swears  by  Great  Freya, 
His  bride  thou  must  be ! 
So  Jarl  Egill  swore  when  his  great  heart  was  fullest. 

Thy  white  arms  are  locked  in 
Broad  bracelets  of  gold ; 
Thy  girdle-stead 's  gleaming 
With  treasures  untold : 
The  circlet  that  binds  up 
Thy  long  yellow  hair, 


28 


THE      WOOING     SONG     OF 


Is  starred  thick  with  jewels, 
That  bright  are  and  rare ; 
But  gifts  yet  more  princely 
Jarl  Egill  bestows, 
For  girdle,  his  great  arm 
Around  thee  he  throws  ; 
The  bark  of  a  sea-king 
For  palace,  gives  he, 
While  mad  waves  and  winds  shall 
Thy  true  subjects  be. 
So  richly  Jarl  Egill  endowed  his  bright  bride. 

Nay,  frown  not,  nor  shrink  thus, 
Nor  toss  so  thy  head, 
'Tis  a  Vikingir  asks  thee, 
Land-maiden  to  wed ! 
He  skills  not  to  woo  thee, 
In  trembling  and  fear, 
Though  lords  of  the  land  may 
Thus  troop  with  the  deer. 
The  cradle  he  rock'd  in 
So  sound  and  so  long, 
Hath  framed  him  a  heart 
And  a  hand  that  are  strong : 


JARL      EGILL      SKALLAGRIM.  29 

He  comes  then  as  Jarl  should, 
Sword  belted  to  side, 
To  win  thee  and  wear  thee 
With  glory  and  pride. 
So  sternly  Jarl  Egill  wooed,  and  smote  his  long  brand. 

Thy  father,  thy  brethren, 
Thy  kin  keep  from  me, 
The  maiden  I  've  sworn  shall 
Be  Queen  of  the  sea  ! 
A  truce  with  that  folly  — 
Yon  sea-strand  can  show 
If  this  eye  missed  its  aim, 
Or  this  arm  failed  its  blow : 
I  had  not  well  taken 
Three  strides  on  this  land, 
Ere  a  Jarl  and  his  six  sons 
In  death  bit  the  sand. 
Nay,  weep  not,  pale  maid,  though 
In  battle  should  fall 
The  kemps  who  would  keep  thy 
Bridegroom  from  the  hall. 
So  carped  Jarl  Egill,  and  kissed  the  bright  weeper. 


30  THE      WOOING      SONG      OF 

Through  shadows  and  horrors, 
In  worlds  underground, 
Through  sounds  that  appall 
And  through  sights  that  confound, 
I  sought  the  Weird  women 
Within  their  dark  cell, 
And  made  them  surrender 
Futurity's  spell ; 
I  made  them  rune  over 
The  dim  scroll  so  free, 
And  mutter  how  Fate  sped 
With  lovers  like  me  ; 
Yes,  maiden,  I  forced  them 
To  read  forth  my  doom, 
To  say  how  I  should  fare 
As  jolly  bridegroom. 
So  Jarl  Egill's  love  dared  the  world  of  grim  shadows. 

They  waxed  and  they  waned, 
They  passed  to  and  fro, 
While  lurid  fires  gleamed  o'er 
Their  faces  of  snow ; 
Then-  stony  eyes  moveless, 
Did  glare  on  me  long. 


.1  A  II  L     EGILLSKALLAGRIM.  31 

Then  sullen  they  chanted : 
'  Tlie  Sword  and  the  Song 
Prevail  with  the  gentle, 
Sore  chasten  the  rude, 
And  sway  to  their  purpose 
Each  evil-shaped  mood ! ' 
Fair  Daughter  of  Einar, 
I  've  sung  the  dark  lay 
That  the  Weird  sisters  rimed,  and 
Which  thou  must  obey. 
So  fondly  Jarl  Egili  loved  Einar's  proud  daughter. 

The  curl  of  that  proud  lip, 
The  flash  of  that  eye, 
The  swell  of  that  bosom, 
So  full  and  so  high, 
Like  foam  of  sea-billow, 
Thy  white  bosom  shows, 
Like  flash  of  red  levin 
Thine  eagle  eye  glows  : 
Ha !  firmly  and  boldly, 
So  stately  and  free, 
Thy  foot  treads  this  chamber, 
As  bark  rides  the  sea : 


32  THE      WOOING      SONG      OF 

I 

This  likes  me  —  this  likes  me, 
Stout  maiden  of  mould, 
Thou  wooest  to  purpose  ; 
Bold  hearts  love  the  bold. 
So  shouted  Jarl  Egill,  and  clutched  the  proud  maiden. 

Away  and  away  then, 
I  have  thy  small  hand ; 
Joy  with  me,  —  our  tall  bark 
Now  bears  toward  the  strand ; 
I  call  it  the  Raven, 
The  wing  of  black  night, 
That  shadows  forth  ruin 
O'er  islands  of  light : 
Once  more  on  its  long  deck, 
Behind  us  the  gale, 
Thou  shalt  see  how  before  it 
Great  kingdoms  do  quail : 
Thou  shalt  see  then  how  truly, 
My  noble-souled  maid, 
The  ransom  of  kings  can 
Be  won  by  this  blade. 
So  bravely  Jarl  Egill  did  soothe  the  pale  trembler. 


JARL     EGILL      SKALLAGRIM.  33 

Ay,  gaze  on  its  large  hilt, 
One  wedge  of  red  gold ; 
But  doat  on  its  blade,  gilt 
With  blood  of  the  bold. 
The  hilt  is  right  seemly, 
But  nobler  the  blade, 
That  swart  Velint's  hammer 
With  cunning  spells  made ; 
I  call  it  the  Adder, 
Death  lurks  in  its  bite, 
Through  bone  and  proof-harness 
It  scatters  pale  light. 
Fair  Daughter  of  Einar, 
Deem  high  of  the  fate 
That  makes  thee,  like  this  blade, 
Proud  Egill's  loved  mate ! 
So  Jarl  Egill  bore  off  Torf  Einar's  bright  daughter. 


THE  SWORD  CHANT   OF  THORSTEIN  RAUDI. 

'T  is  not  the  gray  hawk's  flight 

O'er  mountain  and  mere ; 
'T  is  not  the  fleet  hound's  course 

Tracking  the  deer ; 
'T  is  not  the  light  hoof  print 

Of  black  steed  or  gray, 
Though  sweltering  it  gallop 

A  long  summer's  day ; 
Which  mete  forth  the  Lordships 

I  challenge  as  mine ; 
Ha !  ha !  't  is  the  good  brand 
I  clutch  in  my  strong  hand, 
That  can  their  broad  marches 

And  numbers  define. 
LAND  GIVER  !  I  kiss  thee. 

Dull  builders  of  houses, 
Base  tillers  of  earth, 


OF     THORSTEIN      RAUDI.  35 

Gaping,  ask  me  what  lordships 

I  owned  at  my  birth ; 
But  the  pale  fools  wax  mute 

When  I  point  with  my  sword 
East,  west,  north,  and  south, 

Shouting, '  There  am  I  Lord !' 
Wold  and  waste,  town  and  tower, 

Hill,  valley,  and  stream, 
Trembling,  bow  to  my  sway 
In  the  fierce  battle  fray, 
When  the  star  that  rules  Fate,  is 

This  falchion's  red  gleam. 
MIGHT  GIVER  !  I  kiss  thee. 

I  've  heard  great  harps  sounding, 

In  brave  bower  and' hall, 
I  've  drank  the  sweet  music 

That  bright  lips  let  fall, 
I  've  hunted  in  greenwood, 

And  heard  small  birds  sing ; 
But  away  with  this  idle 

And  cold  jargoning ; 
The  music  I  love,  is 

The  shout  of  the  brave, 


THE      SWORD      CHANT 

The  yell  of  the  dying, 

The  scream  of  the  flying, 

When  this  arm  wields  death's  sickle, 

And  garners  the  grave. 
JOY  GIVEE  !  I  kiss  thee. 

Far  isles  of  the  ocean 

Thy  lightning  have  known, 
And  wide  o'er  the  main  land 

Thy  horrors  have  shone. 
Great  sword  of  my  father, 

Stern  joy  of  his  hand, 
Thou  hast  carved  his  name  deep  on 

The  stranger's  red  strand, 
And  won  him  the  glory 

Of  undying  song. 
Keen  cleaver  of  gay  crests, 
Sharp  piercer  of  broad  breasts, 
Grim  slayer  of  heroes, 

And  scourge  of  the  strong. 
FAME  GIVER  !  I  kiss  thee. 

In  a  love  more  abiding 

Than  that  the  heart  knows, 


OF     THORSTEIN      R  A  U  D  I  .  37 

For  maiden  more  lovely 

Than  summer's  first  rose, 
My  heart's  knit  to  thine, 

And  lives  but  for  thee ; 
In  dreamings  of  gladness, 

Thou  'rt  dancing  with  me, 
Brave  measures  of  madness 

In  some  battle-field, 
Where  armor  is  ringing, 
And  noble  blood  springing, 
And  cloven,  yawn  helmet, 

Stout  hauberk  and  shield. 
DEATH  GIVER  !  I  kiss  thee. 

The  smile  of  a  maiden's  eye 

Soon  may  depart ; 
And  light  is  the  faith  of 

Fair  woman's  heart ; 
Changeful  as  light  clouds, 

And  wayward  as  wind, 
Be  the  passions  that  govern 

Weak  woman's  mind. 
But  thy  metal 's  as  true 

As  its  polish  is  bright ; 


THE      SWORD      CHANT. 

When  ills  wax  in  number, 
Thy  love  will  not  slumber, 
But,  starlike,  burns  fiercer, 

The  darker  the  night 
HEART  GLADENER  !  I  kiss  thee. 

My  kindred  have  perished 

By  war  or  by  wave,  — 
Now,  childless  and  sireless, 

I  long  for  the  grave. 
When  the  path  of  our  glory 

Is  shadowed  in  death, 
With  me  thou  wilt  slumber 

Below  the  brown  heath; 
Thou  wilt  rest  on  my  bosom, 

And  with  it  decay,  — 
While  harps  shall  be  ringing, 
And  Scalds  shall  be  singing 
The  deeds  we  have  done  in 

Our  old  fearless  day. 
SONG  GIVER  !  I  kiss  thee. 


JEANIE  MORRISON. 
xy  » 

I  'VE  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way ; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day ! 
The  fire  that 's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en, 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule  ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 
Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path, 

And  blind  my  een,  wi'  tears  : 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears; 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

'T  was  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 
'T  was  then  we  twa  did  part ; 


40  JEANIE        MORRISON. 

Sweet  time  —  sad  time !  twa  bairns  at  scule, 
Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 

rT  was  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 
Toleirilkitherlear; 

And  tones,  and  looks,  and  smiles  were  shed, 
Remembered  evermair. 

I  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 
Cheek  totichin'  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof, 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 
When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  buik  on  our  knee, 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

O,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 
Whene'er  the  scule-weans  laughiii'  said, 

We  cleek'd  thegither  hame  ? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays, 

(The  scule  then  skail't  at  noon,) 
When  we  ran  aff  to  speel  the  braes  — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June  ? 


JEANIE      MORRISON.  41 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 

O'  scule-time  and  o'  thee. 
O,  mornin'  life  !  O,  mornin'  hive  ! 

O  lichtsome  days  and  lang, 
When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 

Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang ! 

O,  mind  ye,  hive,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deaviii'  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  waters  croon  ? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads-, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  hi  the  gloamin  o'  the  wood, 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet ; 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees, 
And  we  with  Nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies ; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn> 

For  hours  thegither  sat 


42  JEANIE      MORRISON. 

In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 
Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek, 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak ! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled,  —  unsung ! 

I  marvel  Jeanie  Morrison, 

* 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thochts, 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me  ? 
O  !  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine ; 

0  !  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 
Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsyne  ? 

1  've  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west, 

I  've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 
Ye  never  were  forgot, 


JEANIE      MORRISON.  43 

The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart, 

Still  travels  on  its  way ; 
And  channels  deeper  as  it  rins, 

The  hive  o'  life's  young  day. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
Since  we  were  sindered  young, 

1  've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue ; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  die, 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

O'  bygane  days  and  me ! 


MY  HEID  IS  LIKE  TO  REND,  WILLIE. 

Mr  held  is  like  to  rend,  Willie, 

My  heart  is  like  to  break,  — 
I  'm  wearin'  aff  my  feet,  Willie, 

I  'm  dyiii'  for  your  sake  ! 
O  lay  your  cheek  to  mine,  Willie, 

Your  hand  on  my  briest-bane,  — 
O  say  ye  '11  think  on  me,  Willie, 

When  I  am  deid  and  gane  ! 

It 's  vain  to  comfort  me,  Willie, 

Sair  grief  maun  ha'e  its  will,  — 
But  let  me  rest  upon  your  briest, 

To  sab  and  greet  my  fill. 
Let  me  sit  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

Let  me  shed  by  your  hair, 
And  look  into  the  face,  Willie, 

I  never  sail  see  mair ! 

I'm  sittin'  on  your  knee,  Willie, 
For  the  last  time  in  my  life,  — 


TO      REND,      WILLIE.  45 

A  puir  heart-broken  thing,  Willie, 

A  mither,  yet  nae  wife. 
Ay,  press  your  hand  upon  my  heart, 

And  press  it  mair  and  mair,  — 
Or  it  will  burst  the  silken  twine, 

Sae  strang  is  its  despair ! 

O  wae  's  me  for  the  hour,  Willie, 

When  we  thegither  met,  — 
O  wae 's  me  for  the  time,  Willie, 

That  our  first  tiyst  was  set ! 
O  wae 's  me  for  the  loanin'  green 

Where  we  were  wont  to  gae,  — 
And  wae 's  me  for  the  destinie, 

That  gart  me  luve  thee  sac  ! 

O  !  dinna  mind  my  words,  Willie, 

I  downa  seek  to  blame,  — 
But  O  !  it 's  hard  to  live,  Willie, 

And  dree  a  warld's  shame  ! 
Het  tears  are  hailin'  ower  your  cheek, 

And  hailin'  ower  your  chin ; 
Why  weep  ye  sae  for  worthlessness, 

For  sorrow  and  for  sin  ? 


46  MYHEIDISLIKE 

I  'm  weary  o'  this  warld,  Willie, 

And  sick  wi'  a'  I  see,  — 
I  canna  live  as  I  ha'e  lived, 

Or  be  as  I  should  be. 
But  fauld  unto  your  heart,  Willie, 

The  heart  that  still  is  thine,  — 
And  kiss  ance  mair  the  white,  white  cheek, 

Ye  said  was  red  langsyne. 

A  stoun'  gaes  through  my  heid,  Willie, 

A  sair  stoun'  through  my  heart,  — 
O  !  hand  me  up  and  let  me  kiss 

Thy  brow  ere  we  twa  pairt. 
Anither,  and  anither  yet !  — 

How  fast  my  life-strings  break  !  — 
Fareweel !  fareweel !  through  yon  kirk-yard 

Step  lichtly  for  my  sake  ! 

The  lav'rock  in  the  lift,  Willie, 

That  hits  far  ower  our  heid, 
Will  sing  the  morn  as  merrilie 

Abune  the  clay-cauld  deid ; 
And  this  green  turf  we  're  sittin'  on, 

Wi'  dew-draps  shimmerin'  sheen, 


TO      REND,      WILLIE.  47 

Will  hap  the  heart  that  luvit  thee 
As  warld  has  seldom  seen. 

But  O  !  remember  me,  Willie, 

On  land  where'er  ye  be,  — 
And  O  !  think  on  the  leal,  leal  heart, 

That  ne'er  luvit  ane  but  thee  ! 
And  O  !  think  on  the  cauld,  cauld  mools, 

That  file  my  yellow  hair,  — 
That  kiss  the  cheek,  and  kiss  the  chin, 

Ye  never  sail  kiss  mair ! 


THE  MADMAN'S  LOVE. 

Ho  !  FLESH  and  Blood !  sweet  Flesh  and  Blood 

As  ever  strode  on  earth. ! 
Welcome  to  Water  and  to  Wood,  — 

To  all  a  Madman's  mirth. 
This  tree  is  mine,  this  leafless  tree 

That 's  writhen  o'er  the  linn  ; 
The  stream  is  mine,  that  fitfully 

Pours  forth  its  sullen  din. 
Their  lord  am  I ;  and  still  my  dream 
Is  of  this  Tree,  —  is  of  that  Stream. 

The  Tree,  the  Stream,  —  a  deadly  Twain ! 

They  will  not  live  apart ; 
The  one  rolls  thundering  through  my  brain, 

The  other  smites  my  heart : 
Ay,  this  same  leafless,  fire-scathed  tree, 

That  groweth  by  the  rock, 
Shakes  its  old  sapless  arms  at  me, 

And  would  my  madness  mock ! 
The  slaves  are  saucy,  —  well  they  know 
Good  service  did  they  long  ago. 


THE    MADMAN'S    LOVE.  49 

I  Ve  lived  two  lives :  The  first  is  past 

Some  hundred  years  or  more ; 
But  still  the  present  is  o'ercast 

With  visionings  of  yore. 
This  tree,  this  rock,  that 's  cushioned  sweet 

With  tufts  of  savory  thyme, 
That  unseen  river,  which  doth  greet 

Our  ears  with  its  rude  rhyme, 
Were  then  as  now,  —  they  form  the  chain 
That  links  the  present  with  past  pain. 

Sweet  Flesh  and  Blood !  how  deadly  chill 

These  milk-white  fingers  be ! 
The  feathery  ribs  of  ice-bound  rill 

Seem  not  so  cold  to  me ;  — 
But  press  them  on  this  burning  brow 

Which  glows  like  molten  brass, 
'Twill  thaw  them  soon;  then  thou  shalt  know 

How  ancient  visions  pass 
Before  mine  eyes,  like  shapes  of  life, 
Kindling  old  loves  and  deadly  strife. 

Drink  to  me  first !  —  nay,  do  not  scorn 
These  sparkling  dews  of  night ; 
5 


50  THE    MADMAN'S    LOVE. 

I  pledge  thee  in  the  silver  horn 

Of  yonder  moonlet  bright : 
'Tis  stinted  measure  now,  but  soon 

Thy  cup  shall  overflow ; 
It  half  was  spilled  two  hours  agone, 

That  little  flowers  might  grow, 
And  weave  for  me  fine  robes  of  silk ; 
For  which  good  deed,  stars  drop  them  milk. 

Nay,  take  the  horn  into  thy  hand, 

The  goodly  silver  horn, 
And  quaff  it  off     At  my  command 

Each  flower-cup,  ere  the  morn, 
Shall  brimful  be  of  glittering  dews, 

And  then  we  '11  have  large  store 
Of  heaven's  own  vintage  ripe  for  user 

To  pledge  our  healths  thrice  o'er; 
So  skink  the  can  as  maiden  free, 
Then  troll  the  merry  bowl  to  me ! 

Hush !  —  drink  no  more !  for  now  the  trees, 

In  yonder  grand  old  wood, 
Burst  forth  in  sinless  melodies 

To  cheer  my  solitude ; 


THE    MADMAN'S    LOVE.  51 

Trees  sing  thus  every  night  to  me, 

So  mournfully  and  slow,  — 
They  think,  dear  hearts,  't  were  well  for  me, 

Could  large  tears  once  forth  flow 
From  this  hard  frozen  eye  of  mine, 
As  freely  as  they  stream  from  thine. 

Ay,  ay,  they  sing  right  passing  well, 

And  pleasantly  in  tune, 
To  midnight  winds  a  canticle 

That  floats  up  to  the  moon  ; 
And  she  goes  wandering  near  and  far 

Through  yonder  vaulted  skies, 
No  nook  whereof  but  hath  a  star 

Shed  for  me  from  her  eyes ;  — 
She  knows  I  cannot  weep,"  but  she 
Weeps  worlds  of  light  for  love  of  me ! 

Yes,  in  her  bower  of  clouds  she  weeps 

Night  after  night  for  me,  — 
The  lonely  man  that  sadly  keeps 

Watch  by  the  blasted  tree. 
She  spreads  o'er  these  lean  ribs  her  beams, 

To  scare  the  cutting  cold ; 


52  THE    MADMAN'S    LOVE. 

She  lends  me  light  to  read  my  dreams, 

And  rightly  to  unfold 
The  mysteries  that  make  men  mad, 
Or  wise,  or  wild,  or  good,  or  bad. 

So  lovingly  she  shines  through  me, 

"Without  me  and  within, 
That  even  thou,  methinks,  might'st  see, 

Beneath  this  flesh  so  thin, 
A  heart  that  like  a  ball  of  fire 

Is  ever  blazing  there, 
Yet  dieth  not ;  for  still  the  lyre 

Of  heaven  soothes  its  despair,  — 
The  lyre  that  sounds  so  sadly  sweet, 
When  winds  and  woods  and  waters  meet. 

Hush !  hush !  so  sang  yon  ghastly  wood, 

So  moaned  the  sullen  stream 
One  night,  as  TWO  on  this  rock  stood 

Beneath  this  same  moonbeam :  — 
Nay,  start  not!  —  one  was  Flesh  and  Blood, 

A  dainty,  straight-limbed  dame, 
That  clung  to  me  and  sobbed,  —  O  God 

Struggling  with  maiden  shame, 


THE      MAD  MAN    3     LOVE. 

She  faltered  forth  her  love,  and  swore, — 

'  ON  LAND  OR  SEA,  THINE  EVERMORE  !  ' 

By  Wood,  by  Water,  and  by  Wind, 

Yea,  by  the  blessed  light 
Of  the  brave  moon,  that  maiden  kind 

Eternal  faith  did  plight ; 
Yea,  by  the  rock  on  which  we  stood,  — 

This  altar-stone  of  yore,  — 
That  loved  one  said,  *  On  land  or  flood, 

Thine,  thine  for  evermore ! ' 
The  earth  reeled  round,  I  gasped  for  breath, 
I  loved,  and  was  beloved  till  death ! 

I  felt  upon  my  brow  a  kiss, 

Upon  my  cheek  a  tear ;  - 
I  felt  that  now  life's  sum  of  bliss 

Was  more  than  heart  could  bear. 
Life's  sum  of  bliss  ?  say  rather  pain, 

For  heart  to  find  its  mate, 
To  love,  and  be  beloved  again, 

Even  when  the  hand  of  Fate 
Motions  farewell !  —  and  one  must  be 
A  wanderer  on  the  faithless  sea. 


54  THE    MADMAN'S    LOVE. 

Ay,  Land  or  Sea !  for,  mark  me  now, 

Next  morrow  o'er  the  foam, 
Sword  girt  to  side,  and  helm  on  brow, 

I  left  a  sorrowing  home ; 
Yet  still  I  lived  as  very  part 

Even  of  this  sainted  rock, 
Where  first  that  loved  one's  tristful  heart 

Its  secret  treasure  broke 
In  my  love -tliirs ting  ear  alone, 
Here,  here,  on  tin's  huge  altar-stone. 

Hear'st  thou  the  busy  sounds  that  come 

From  yonder  glittering  shore : 
The  madness  of  the  doubling  drum, 

The  naker's  sullen  roar,  — 
The  wild  and  shrilly  strains  that  swell 

From  each  bright  brassy  horn,  — 
The  fluttering  of  each  penoncel 

By  knightly  lance  upborne,  — 
The  clear  ring  of  each  tempered  shield, 
And  proud  steeds  neighing  far  afield  ? 

Sweet  Flesh  and  Blood !  my  tale  's  not  told, 
'T  is  scantly  well  begun :  — 


THE    MADMAN'S    LOVE.  55 

Our  vows  were  passed,  in  heaven  enrolled, 

And  then  next  morrow's  sun 
Saw  banners  waving  in  the  wind, 

And  tall  barks  on  the  sea : 
Glory  before,  and  Love  behind, 

Marshalled  proud  chivalrie, 
As  every  valor-freighted  ship 
Its  gilt  prow  in  the  wave  did  dip. 

And  then  passed  o'er  a  merry  time,  — 

A  roystering  gamesome  life, 
Till  cheeks  were  tanned  with  many  a  clime, 

Brows  scarred  in  many  a  strife. 
But  what  of  that  ?     Year  after  year, 

In  every  battle's  shock, 
Or  'mid  the  storms  of  ocean  drear, 

My  heart  clung  to  this  rock ; 
Was  with  its  very  being  blent, 
Sucking  from  it  brave  nourishment. 

All  life,  all  feeling,  every  thought 

"Was  centred  in  this  spot ; 
The  unforgetting  being  wrought 

Upon  the  Unforgot. 


56  THE    MADMAN'S    LOVE. 

Time  fleeted  on ;  but  time  ne'er  dimmed 
The  picturings  of  the  heart,  — 

Freshly  as  when  they  first  were  limned, 
Truth's  fadeless  tints  would  start ; 

Yes !  wheresoe'er  Life's  bark  might  steer, 

This  changeless  heart  was  anchored  here. 

Ha !  laugh,  sweet  Flesh  and  Blood,  outright, 

Nor  smother  honest  glee, 
Your  time  is  now ;  but  ere  this  night 

Hath  travelled  over  me, 
My  time  shall  come ;  and  then,  ay,  then 

The  wanton  stars  shall  reel 
Like  drunkards  all,  when  we  madmen 

Upraise  our  laughter  peal. 
I  see  the  cause :  the  TWAIN,  —  the  ONE,  — 
The  SHAPE  that  gibbered  in  the  sun ! 

You  pinch  my  wrist,  you  press  my  knee, 

With  fingers  long  and  small ; 
Light  fetters  these,  —  not  so  on  me 

Did  heathen  shackles  fall, 
When  I  was  captived  in  the  fight 

On  Candy's  fatal  shore ; 


THE    MADMAN'S    LOVE.  57 

And  payiiims  won  a  battered  knight, 

A  living  well  of  gore ;  — 
How  the  knaves  smote  me  to  the  ground, 
And  hewed  me  like  a  tree  all  round  ! 

They  hammered  irons  on  my  hand, 

And  irons  on  my  knee ; 
They  bound  me  fast  with  many  a  band, 

To  pillar  and  to  tree ; 
They  flung  me  in  a  loathsome  pit, 

Where  loathly  things  were  rife,  — 
Where  newte,  and  toad,  and  rat  would  sit, 

Debating  for  my  life, 
On  my  breast  bone ;  while  one  and  all 
Hissed,  fought,  and  voided  on  their  thrall. 

Yet  lived  I  on,  and,  madman-like, 

With  unchanged  heart  I  lay ; 
No  venom  to  its  core  could  strike, 

For  it  was  far  away :  — 
'T  was  even  here  beside  this  Tree, 

Its  Trysting-place  of  yore, 
Where  that  fond  maiden  swore  to  me, 

'  Thine,  thine,  for  evermore/ 


58  THE    MADMAN'S    LOVE. 

Faith  in  her  vow  made  that  pit  seem 
The  palace  of  Arabian  dream. 

And  so  was  passed  a  weary  time, 

How  long  I  cannot  tell, 
'T  was  years  ere  in  that  sunny  clime 

A  sunbeam  on  me  fell. 
But  from  that  tomb  I  rushed  in  tears, 

The  fetters  fell  from  me, 
They  rusted  through  with  damp  and  years, 

And  rotted  was  the  tree, 
When  the  Undying  crawled  from  night, — 
From  loathsomeness,  into  God's  light 

O  Lord !  there  was  a  flood  of  sound 

Came  rushing  through  my  ears, 
When  I  arose  from  underground, 

A  wild  thing  shedding  tears :  — 
The  voices  of  glad  birds  and  brooks, 

And  eke  of  greenwood  tree, 
With  all  the  long-remembered  looks 

Of  earth,  and  sky,  and  sea, 
Danced  madly  through  my  'wildered  brain, 
And  shook  me  like  a  wind-swung  chain. 


THE      MADMAN    S      LOVE.  59 

Men  marvelled  at  the  ghastly  form 

That  sat  before  the  sun, — 
That  laughed  to  scorn  the  pelting  storm, 

Nor  would  the  thunders  shun ; 
The  bearded  Shape  that  gibbered  sounds 

Of  uncouth  lore  and  lands, 
Struck  awe  into  these  Heathen  hounds, 

Who,  lifting  up  their  hands, 
Blessed  the  wild  prophet,  and  then  brought 
Raiment  and  food  unthanked,  unsought. 

I  have  a  dreaming  of  the  sea,  — 

A  dreaming  of  the  land,  — 
A  dreaming  that  again  to  me 

Belonged  a  good  knight's  brand,  — 
A  dreaming  that  this  brow  was  pressed 

With  plumed  helm  once  more, 
That  linked  mail  reclad  this  breast 

When  I  retrod  the  shore, 
The  blessed  shores  of  my  fatherland, 
And  knelt  in  prayer  upon  its  strand. 

*  Years  furrow  brows  and  channel  cheeks, 
But  should  not  chase  old  loves  away ; 


60  THE    MADMAN'S    LOVE. 

The  language  which  true  heart  first  speaks, 
That  language  must  it  hold  for  aye.' 

Tliis  poesie  a  war-worn  man 
Did  mutter  to  himself  one  night, 

As  upwards  to  this  cliff  he  ran ; 
That  shone  in  the  moonlight ; 

And  by  the  moonlight  curiously, 

He  scanned  the  bark  of  this  old  tree. 

1  No  change  is  here,  all  things  remain 

As  they  were  years  ago ; 
With  self-same  voice  the  old  woods  playne, 

When  shrilly  winds  do  blow,  — 
Still  murmuring  to  itself,  the  stream 

Rolls  o'er  its  rocky  bed,  — 
Still  smiling  in  its  quiet  dream, 

The  small  flower  nods  its  head ; 
And  I  stand  here,'  the  War-worn  said, 
'  Like  Nature's  heart  unaltered.' 

Now,  Flesh  and  Blood,  that  sits  by  me 

On  tins  bare  ledge  of  stone, 
So  sat  that  Childe  of  chivalrie, 

One  summer  eve  alone. 


THE    MADMAN'S    LOVE.  61 

I  saw  him,  and  methought  he  seemed 

Like  to  the  bearded  Form 
That  sat  before  the  sun,  and  gleamed 

Defiance  to  the  storm  ; 
I  saw  him  in  his  war-weed  sit, 
And  other  Two  before  him  flit 

Yes,  in  the  shadow  of  that  tree, 

And  motionless  as  stone, 
Sat  the  War-worn,  while  mirthfully 

The  other  Two  passed  on ;  — 
By  heaven !  one  was  a  comely  bride, 

Her  face  gleamed  in  the  moon, 
As  richly  as  in  full-fleshed  pride, 

Bright  roses  burst  in  June  ; 
Methought  she  was  the  maiden  mild, 
That  whilome  loved  the  wandering  Childe  ! 

But  it  was  not  her  former  love 

That  wandered  with  her  there,  — 
O,  no  !  long  absence  well  may  move 

A  maiden  to  despair ; 
Old  loves  we  cast  unto  the  winds, 

Old  vows  into  the  sea, 


THE      MADMAN    S      LOVE. 

'Tis  lightsome  for  all  gentle  minds 

To  be  as  fancy  free. 

So  the  Vow-pledged  One  loved  another, 
And  wantoned  with  a  younger  brother. 

I  heard  a  dull,  hoarse,  chuckle  sound, 

Beside  that  trysting-tree ; 
I  saw  uprising  from  the  ground, 

A  ghastly  shape  like  me. 
But  no  !  —  it  was  the  War-worn  wight, 

That  pale  as  whited  wall, 
Strode  forth  into  the  moonshine  bright, 

And  let  the  hoarse  sounds  fall 
A  voice  uprashing  from  the  tomb 
Than  his,  were  less  fulfilled  with  doom. 

'  Judgment  ne'er  sleeps ! '  the  War-worn  said, 

As  striding  into  light, 
He  stood  before  that  shuddering  maid, 

Between  her  and  that  knight 
Judgment  ne'er  sleeps  !  't  is  wondrous  odd, 

One  gurgle,  one  long  sigh, 
Ended  it  all     Upon  this  sod 

Lay  one  with  unclosed  eye, 


THE    MADMAN'S    LOVE.  63 

And  then  the  boiling  linn  that  night, 
Flung  on  its  banks  a  lady  bright. 

She  tripped  towards  me  as  you  have  tripped, 

Pale  maiden  !  and  as  cold ; 
She  sipped  with  me  as  you  have  sipped, 

Night  dews,  and  then  I  told 
To  her  as  you,  my  weary  tale 

Of  double  life  and  pain  ; 
And  thawed  her  fingers  dull  and  pale 

Upon  my  burning  brain ;  — 
That  daintiest  piece  of  Flesh  on  earth, 
I  welcomed  to  all  my  mirth. 

And  then  I  pressed  her  icy  hand 

"Within  my  burning  palmr 
And  told  her  tales  of  that  far  land, 

Of  sunshine,  flowers,  and  balm  ; 
I  told  her  of  the  damp,  dark  hole, 

The  fetters  and  the  tree, 
And  of  the  slimy  things  that  stole 

O'er  shuddering  flesh  so  free  : 
Yea,  of  the  Bearded  Ghastliness, 
That  sat  in  the  sun's  loveliness. 


THE    MADMAN'S    LOVE. 

I  welcomed  her,  I  welcome  thee, 

To  sit  upon  this  stone, 
And  meditate  all  night  with  me, 

On  ages  that  are  gone  ; 
To  dream  again  each  marvellous  dream, 

Of  passion  and  of  truth, 
And  reconstruct  each  shattered  beam 

That  glorified  glad  youth. 

These  were  the  days  ! — hearts  then  could  feel, 
Eyes  weep,  and  slumbers  o'er  them  steal. 

But  not  so  now.     The  second  life 

That  wearied  hearts  must  live, 
Is  woven  with  that  thread  of  stnfe,  — 

Forget  not,  nor  Forgive  ! 
Fires,  scorching  fires,  ran  through  our  veins, 

Our  corded  sinews  crack, 
And  molten  lead  boils  in  our  brains, 

For  marrow  to  the  back. 

Ha  !  ha !     What 's  Life  ?     Think  of  the  joke, 
The  fiercest  fire  still  ends  in  smoke. 

Fill  up  the  cup  !  fill  up  the  can  ! 

Drink,  drink,  sweet  Flesh  and  Blood, 


THE    MADMAN'S    LOVE.  65 

The  health  of  the  grim  bearded  man 

That  haunteth  solitude  ;  — 
The  wood  pours  forth  its  melodies, 

And  stars  whirl  fast  around ; 
Yon  moon-ship  scuds  before  the  breeze,  — 

Hark,  how  sky-billows  sound ! 
Drink,  Flesh  and  Blood !  then  trip  with  me, 
One  measure  round  the  Madman's  Tree  ! 


HALBERT  THE  GRIM. 


THERE  is  blood  on  that  brow, 
There  is  blood  on  that  hand  ; 

There  is  blood  on  that  hauberk, 
And  blood  on  that  brand. 

O  !  bloody  all  o'er  is 
His  war-cloak,  I  weet ; 

He  is  wrapped  in  the  cover 
Of  murder's  red  sheet. 

There  is  pity  in  man,  — 

Is  there  any  in  him  ? 
No  !  ruth  were  a  strange  guest 

To  Halbert  the  Grim. 

The  hardest  may  soften, 

The  fiercest  repent ; 
But  the  heart  of  Grim  Halbert 

May  never  relent 


HALBERT      THE      GRIM.  67 

Death  doing  on  earth,  is 

For  ever  his  cry ; 
And  pillage  and  plunder 

His  hope  in  the  sky ! 

'Tis  midnight,  deep  midnight, 

And  dark  is  the  heaven ; 
Sir  Halbert,  in  mockery, 

Wends  to  be  shriven. 

He  kneels  not  to  stone, 

And  he  bends  not  to  wood ; 
But  he  swung  round  his  brown  blade, 

And  hewed  down  the  Rood ! 

He  stuck  his  long  sword,  with 

Its  point  in  the  earth ; 
And  he  prayed  to  its  cross  hilt, 

In  mockery  and  mirth. 

Thus  lowly  he  lotiteth, 

And  mumbles  his  beads ; 
Then  lightly  he  riseth, 

And  homeward  he  speeds. 


68 


HALBERT      THE      GRIM. 

His  steed  hurries  homewards, 

Darkling  and  dim ; 
Right  fearful  its  prances 

With  Halbert  the  Grim. 

Still  fiercer  it  tramples, 
The  spur  gores  its  side ; 

Now  downward  and  downward 
Grim  Halbert  doth  ride. 

The  brown  wood  is  threaded, 
The  gray  flood  is  past, 

Yet  hoarser  and  wilder 
Moans  ever  the  blast. 

No  star  lends  its  taper, 
No  moon  sheds  her  glow ; 

For  dark  is  the  dull  path 
That  Baron  must  go. 

Though  starless  the  sky,  and 
No  moon  shines  abroad, 

Yet,  flashing  with  fire,  all 
At  once  gleams  the  road. 


HALBERT      THE      GRIM.  69 

And  his  black  steed,  I  trow, 

As  it  galloped  on, 
With,  a  hot  sulphur  halo, 

And  flame -flash  all  shone. 

From  eye  and  from  nostril, 

Out  gushed  the  pale  flame, 
And  from  its  chafed  mouth,  the 

Churned  fire-froth  came. 

They  are  two !  they  are  two !  — 

They  are  coal  black  as  night, 
That  now  staunchly  follow 

That  grim  Baron's  flight. 

In  each  lull  of  the  wild  blast, 

Out  breaks  then*  deep  yell : 
'Tis  the  slot  of  the  doomed  one, 

These  hounds  track  so  well. 

Ho  !  downward,  still  downward, 

Sheer  slopeth  his  way ; 
No  let  hath  Ins  progress, 

No  gate  bids  him  stay. 


70  HALBERT      THE      GRIM. 

No  noise  had  his  horse-hoof 

As  onward  it  sped ; 
But  silent  it  fell,  as 

The  foot  of  the  dead. 

Now  redder  and  redder 
Flares  far  its  bright  eye, 

And  harsher  these  dark  hounds 
Yell  out  their  fierce  cry. 

Sheer  downward  !  right  downward ! 

Then  dashed  life  and  limb, 
As  careering  to  hell, 

Sunk  Halbert  the  Grim! 


TRUE    LOVE'S    DIRGE. 


SOME  love  is  light  and  fleets  away, 
Heigho !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 

Some  love  is  deep  and  scorns  decay, 
Ah,  well-a-day !  in  vain. 

Of  loyal  love  I  sing  this  lay, 
Heigho !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 

'T  is  of  a  knight  and  lady  gay, 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  bright  twain. 

He  loved  her,  —  heart  loved  ne'er  so  well, 
Heigho !  the  Wind  and  Rain ! 

She  was  a  cold  and  proud  damsel, 
Ah,  well-a-day !  and  vain. 

He  loved  her,  —  oh,  he  loved  her  long, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 

But  she  for  love  gave  bitter  wrong, ' 
Ah,  well-a-day !  Disdain ! 


72  TRUE      LOVE'S      DIRGE. 

It  is  not  meet  for  knight  like  me, 
Heigho !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 

Though  scorned,  love's  recreant  to  be, 
Ah,  well-a-day !  Refrain. 

That  brave  knight  buckled  to  his  brand, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 

And  fast  he  sought  a  foreign  strand, 
Ah,  well-a-day !  in  pain. 

He  wandered  wide  by  land  and  sea, 
Heigho !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 

A  mirror  of  bright  constancye, 
Ah,  well-a-day !  in  vain. 

He  would  not  chide,  he  would  not  blame, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 

But  at  each  shrine  he  breathed  her  name, 
Ah,  well-a-day  I  Amen ! 

He  would  not  carpe,  he  would  not  sing, 
Heigho !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 

But  broke  his  heart  with  love -longing, 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  poor  brain. 


TRUE      LOVE'S      DIRGE.  73 

He  scorned  to  weep,  he  scorned  to  sigh, 

Heigho !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 
But  like  a  true  knight  he  could  die,  — 

Ah,  well-a-day !  life  's  vain. 

The  banner  which  that  brave  knight  bore, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain  ; 

Had  scrolled  on  it  < \faitl)  (Evermore," 
All,  well-a-day !  again. 

That  banner  led  the  Christian  van, 

Heigho !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 
Against  Seljuck  and  Turcomon,  , 

Ah !  well-a-dayj  bright  train. 

The  fight  was  o'er,  the  day  was  done, 

Heigho !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 
But  lacking  was  that  loyal  one,  — 
Ah  !  well-a-day !  sad  pain. 

They  found  him  on  the  battle-field, 

Heigho !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 
With  broken  sword  and  cloven  shield, 

Ah!  well-a-day!  in  twain. 


74  TtttTB      LOVE'S      DIRGE. 

They  found  him  pillowed  on  the  dead, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 

The  blood-soaked  sod  his  bridal  bed, 
Ah,  well-a-day !  the  Slain. 

On  his  pale  brow,  and  paler  cheek, 
Heigho !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 

The  white  moonshine  did  fall  so  meek,  — 
Ah,  well-a-day!  sad  strain. 

They  lifted  up  the  True  and  Brave, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 

And  bore  him  to  his  lone  cold  grave, 
Ah,  well-a-day !  in  pain. 

They  buried  him  on  that  far  strand, 
Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 

His  face  turned  towards  his  love's  own  land, 
Ah,  well-a-day !  how  vain. 

The  wearied  heart  was  laid  at  rest, 
Heigho !  the  Wind  and  Rain ! 

To  dream  of  her  it  liked  best, 
Ah,  well-a-day !  again. 


TRUE      LOVE'S      DIRGE.  75 

They  nothing  said,  but  many  a  tear, 

Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain, 
Rained  down  on  that  knight's  lowly  bier, 

Ah,  well-a-day !  amain. 

They  nothing  said,  but  many  a  sigh, 

Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 
Told  how  they  wished  like  him  to  die, 

Ah !  well-a-day !  sans  stain. 

With  solemn  mass  and  orison, 

Heigho  !  the  Wind  and  Rain, 
They  reared  to  him  a  cross  of  stone, 

Ah,  well-a-day !  in  pain. 

And  on  it  graved  with  daggers  bright, 

Heigho !  the  Wind  and  Rain ; 
$ere  lies  a  true  aub  gentle 

Ah,  well-a-day !     Amen  ! 

reqme0cat.  in.  pace. 


THE  DEMON  LADY, 

AGAIN  in  my  chamber  I 

Again  at  my  bed ! 
With  thy  smile  sweet  as  sunshine, 

And  hand  cold  as  lead ! 
I  know  thee,  I  know  thee !  — 

Nay,  start  not,  my  sweet ! 
These  golden  robes  shrank  up, 

And  showed  rne  thy  feet ; 
These  golden  robes  shrank  up, 

And  tafFety  thin, 
While  out  crept  the  symbols 

Of  Death  and  of  Sin ! 

Bright,  beautiful  devil! 

Pass,  pass  from  me  now  I 
For  the  damp  dew  of  death 

Gathers  thick  on  my  brow : 
And  bind  up  thy  girdle, 

Nor  beauties  disclose, 


THE      DEMON      LADY.  77 

More  dazzingly  white 

Than  the  wreath-drifted  snows : 
And  away  with  thy  kisses ; 

My  heart  waxes  sick, 
As  thy  red  lips,  like  worms, 
Travel  over  my  cheek ! 

Ha !  press  me  no  more  with 

That  passionless  hand, 
'T  is  whiter  than  milk,  or 

The  foam  on  the  strand; 
'T  is  softer  than  down,  or 

The  silken-leafed  flower ; 
But  colder  than  ice  thrills 

Its  touch  at  this  hour. 
Like  the  finger  of  Death 

From  cerements  unrolled, 
Thy  hand  on  my  heart  falls 

Dull,  clammy,  and  cold. 

Nor  bend  o'er  my  pillow,  — 

Thy  raven  black  hair 
O'ershadows  my  brow  with 

A  deeper  despair ; 


78  T  H  E      D  E  il  O  X      L  A  D  Y  . 

These  ringlets  thick  falling 

Spread  fire  through  my  brain, 
And  my  temples  are  throbbing 

With  madness  again. 
The  moonlight !  the  moonlight ! 

The  deep-winding  bay ! 
There  are  TWO  on  that  strand, 

And  a  ship  far  away ! 

In  its  silence  and  beauty, 

Its  passion  and  power, 
Love  breathed  o'er  the  land, 

Like  the  soul  of  a  flower. 
The  billows  were  chiming 

On  pale  yellow  sands ; 
And  moonshine  was  gleaming 

On  small  ivory  hands. 
There  were  bowers  by  the  brook's  brink 

And  flowers  bursting  free ; 
There  were  hot  lips  to  suck  forth 

A  lost  soul  from  me  ! 

Now,  mountain  and  meadow, 
Frith,  forest  and  river, 


THE      DEM  ON      LADY.  79 

Are  mingling  with  shadows,  — 

Are  lost  to  me  ever. 
The  sunlight  is  fading, 

Small  birds  seek  their  nest ; 
While  happy  hearts,  flower-like, 

Sink  sinless  to  rest, 
But  I !  —  't  is  no  matter ;  — - 

Ay,  kiss  cheek  and  chin ; 
Kiss,  — kiss,  —  thou  hast  won  me, 

Bright,  beautiful  Sin ! 


ZARA. 


1  A  SILVERY  veil  of  pure  moonlight 
Is  glancing  o'er  the  quiet  water, 
And  O !  't  is  beautiful  and  bright 
As  the  soft  smile  of  Selim's  daughter. 

'  Sleep,  moonlight !  sleep  upon  the  wave, 
And  hush  to  rest  each  rising  billow, 
Then  dwell  within  the  mountain  cave, 
Where  this  fond  breast  is  Zara's  pillow. 

'  Shine  on,  thou  blessed  moon  !  brighter  still, 
O,  shine  thus  ever  night  and  morrow ; 
For  day -break  mantling  o'er  the  hill, 
But  wakes  my  love  to  fear  and  sorrow.' 

'T  was  thus  the  Spanish  youth  beguiled 
The  rising  fears  of  Selim's  daughter ; 
And  on  their  loves  the  pale  moon  smiled, 
Unweeting  of  the  morrow's  slaughter. 


ZARA.  81 

Alas  !  too  early  rose  that  morn, 

On  harnessed  knight  and  fierce  soldada, — 

Alas !  too  soon  the  Moorish  horn 

And  tambour  rang  in  Old  Grenada. 

The  dew  yet  bathes  the  dreaming  flower, 
The  mist  yet  lingers  in  the  valley, 
When  Selim  and  his  Zegris'  power 
From  port  and  postern  sternly  sally. 

Marry !  it  was  a  gallant  sight 

To  see  the  plain  with  armour  glancing, 

As  on  to  Alpuxara's  height 

Proud  Selim's  chivalry  were  prancing. 

The  knights  dismount ;  on  foot  they  climb 

The  nigged  steeps  of  Alpuxara ; 

In  fateful  and  unhappy  time, 

Proud  Selim  found  his  long-lost  Zara. 

They  sleep,  —  in  sleep  they  smile  and  dream 
Of  happy  days  they  ne'er  shall  number; 
Their  lips  breathe  sounds,  —  their  spirits  seem 
To  hold  communion  while  they  slumber. 
7 


62  Z  A  R  A  . 

A  moment  gazed  the  stern  old  Moor, 
A  scant  tear  in  his  eye  did  gather, 
For  as  he  gazed,  she  muttered  o'er 
A  blessing  on  her  cruel  father. 

The  hand  that  grasped  the  crooked  blade, 
Relaxed  its  gripe,  then  clutched  it  stronger ; 
The  tear  that  that  dark  eye  hath  shed 
On  the  swart  check,  is  seen  no  longer. 

» 
'T  is  past !  —  the  bloody  deed  is  done, 

A  father's  hand  hath  sealed  the  slaughter ! 
Yet  in  Grenada  many  a  one 
Bewails  the  fate  of  Selim's  daughter. 

And  many  a  Moorish  damsel  hath 

Made  pilgrimage  to  Alpuxara ; 

And  breathed  her  vows,  where  Selim's  wrath 

O'ertook  the  Spanish  youth  and  Zara. 


OUGLOU'S  ONSLAUGHT. 

A  Turkish  Battle-Song. 

TCHASSAN  Ouglou  is  on ! 
Tchassan  Ouglou  is  on ! 
And  with  him  to  battle 
The  Faithful  are  gone, 

Allah,  il  allah ! 
The  tambour  is  rung ; 
Into  his  war-saddle 
Each  Spahi  hath  swung:  — 
Now  the  blast  of  the  desert 
Sweeps  over  the  land, 
And  the  pale  fires  of  heaven 
Gleam  in  each  Damask  brand. 

Allah,  il  allah ! 

Tchassan  Ouglou  is  on ! 
Tchassah  Ouglou  is  on ! 
Abroad  on  the  winds,  all 
His  Horses-tails  are  tin-own. 


84  OUGLOU'S      ONSLAUGHT. 

'T  is  the  rash  of  the  eagle 
Down  cleaving  through  air,  — 
'T  is  the  bound  of  the  lion 
When  roused  from  his  lair. 
Ha !  fiercer  and  -wilder 
And  madder  by  far,  — 
On  thunders  the  might 
Of  the  Moslemite  war. 
Allah,  il  allah ! 

Forth  lash  their  wild  horses, 
With  loose -flowing  rein ; 
The  steel  grides  their  flank, 
Their  hoof  scarce  dints  the  plain 
Like  the  mad  stars  of  heaven, 
Now  the  Delis  rash  out ; 
O'er  the  thunder  of  cannon 
Swells  proudly  their  shout,  — 
And  sheeted  with  foam, 
Like  the  surge  of  the  sea, 
Over  wreck,  death,  and  woe,  rolls 
Each  fierce  Osmanli. 
Allah,  il  allah! 


OUGLOU'S       ONSLAUGHT.  85 

Fast  forward,  still  forward, 

Man  follows  on  man, 

While  the  horse-tails  are  dashing 

Afar  in  the  van ;  — 

See  where  yon  pale  crescent 

And  green  turban  shine, 

There  smite  for  the  Prophet, 

And  Othman's  great  line ! 

Allah,  ilallah! 

The  fierce  war-ciy  is  given,  — 
For  the  flesh  of  the  Giaour 
Shriek  the  vultures  of  heaven. 

Allah,  il  allah ! 

Allah,  ilallah! 
How  thick  on  the  plain, 
The  infidels  cluster 
Like  ripe,  heavy  grain. 
The  reaper  is  coming, 
The  crooked  sickle  's  bare, 
And  the  shout  of  the  Faithful 
Is  rending  the  air. 
Bismillah!  Bismillah! 
Each  far-flashing  brand 


66  OUGLOU'S       ONSLAUGHT. 

Hath  piled  its  red  harvest 
Of  death  on  the  land ! 
Allah,  ilallah! 

Mark,  mark  yon  green  turban 
That  heaves  through  the  fight, 
Like  a  tempest-tost  bark 
'Mid  the  thunders  of  night; 
See  parting  before  it, 
On  right  and  on  left, 
How  the  dark  billows  tumble,  — 
Each  saucy  crest  cleft ! 
Ay,  horseman  and  footman 
Keel  back  in  dismay, 
When  the  sword  of  stern  Onglou 
Is  lifted  to  slay. 
Allah,  ilallah! 

Allah,  ilallah! 
Tchassan  Ouglou  is  on ! 
O'er  the  Infidel  breast 
Hath  his  fiery  barb  gone : 
The  bullets  rain  on  him, 
They  fall  thick  as  hail ; 


O  U  G  L  O  U  '  S      ONSLAUGHT.  87 

The  lances  crash  round  him 
Like  reeds  in  the  gale,  — 
But  onward,  still  onward. 
For  God  and  his  law, 
Through  the  dark  strife  of  Death 
Bursts  the  gallant  Pacha. 
Allah,  il  allah ! 

In  the  wake  of  his  might,  — 
In  the  path  of  the  wind, 
Pour  the  sons  of  the  Faithful, 
Careering  behind ; 
And  bending  to  battle 
O'er  each  high  saddle-bow, 
With  the  sword  of  Azrael, 
They  sweep  down  the  foe. 

Allah,  il  allah ! 
'T  is  Ouglou  that  cries, — 
In  the  breath  of  his  nostril 
The  Infidel  dies ! 

Allah,  il  allah ! 


ELFINLAND  WUD. 

An  imitation  of  the  Ancient  Scottish.  Romantic  Ballad. 

ERL  WILLIAM  lias  muntit  his  gude  grai  stede, 
(Merrie  lemis  munelicht  on  the  sea,) 

And  graithit  him  in  ane  cimili  weid. 

(Swa  boiinilie  bluniis  the  hawthorn  tree.) 

Erl  William  rade,  Erl  William  ran,  — 
(Fast  they  ryde  quhaluve  trewlie,) 

Quhyll  the  Elnnland  wud  that  gude  Erl  wan  - 
(Blink  ower  the  burn,  sweit  may,  to  mee.) 

Elnnland  wud  is  dem  and  dreir, 
(Merrie  is  the  grai  gowkis  sang,) 

Bot  ilk  ane  leans  quhy*t  as  silver  cleir, 
(Licht  makis  schoirt  the  road  swa  lang.) 

It  is  undimeth  ane  braid  aik  tree, 

(Hey  and  a  lo,  as  the  leavis  grow  grein,) 

Thair  is  kythit  ane  bricht  ladie, 

(Manie  flouris  blume  quliilk  ar  nocht  seen.) 


ELF1NLANDWUD.  89 

Around  hir  slepis  the  quhyte  mimeschyue, 

(Meik  is  may  den  undir  kell,) 
Hir  lips  bin  lyke  the  blude  reid  wyne ; 

(The  rois  of  flomis  lies  sweitest  smell.) 

It  was  al  bricht  qtihare  that  ladie  stude, 

(Far  my  hive,  fure  ower  the  sea.) 
Bot  dern  is  the  lave  of  Elfinland  wud, 

(The  kiiicht  pmvit  false  that  ance  luvit  me.) 

The  ladie' s  handis  were  quhyte  als  milk, 
(Hingis  my  luve  wore  mair  nor  ane.) 

Hir  skin  was  safter  nor  the  silk ; 

(Lilly  briclit  schinis  my  luvis  halse  bane.) 

Save  you,  save  you,  fayr  ladie. 

( Gentil  hert  scha\vis  gentil  deed. ) 
Standand  alane  undir  this  auld  tree ; 

(Deir  till  knicht  is  nobil  steid.) 

Burdalaiie,  if  ye  dwall  here, 

( My  hert  is  layed  upon  this  land. ) 
I  wud  like  to  live  your  fere ; 

(The  schippis  cum  sailin  to  the  strand.) 


90  ELFINLAND      WUD. 

Nevir  aue  word  that  ladie  sayd ; 

(Schortest  rede  lies  least  to  mend.) 
Bot  on  hir  harp  she  evir  played ; 

(Tliare  nevir  was  mirth  that  had  nocht  end.) 

Gang  ye  eist,  or  fare  ye  wast, 

(Uka  stern  blinkis  blythe  for  thee,) 

Or  tak  ye  the  road  that  ye  like  best, 
(Al  trew  feeris  ryde  in  cumpanie.) 

Erl  William  loutit  doun  full  lowe ; 

(Luvis  first  seid  bin  courtesie.) 
And  swiuig  hir  owir  his  saddil  bow, 

( Ryde  quha  listis,  ye  '11  link  with  mee. ) 

Scho  flang  her  harp  on  that  auld  tree, 
(  Tlie  wynd  pruvis  aye  ane  harpir  gude. ) 

And  it  gave  out  its  music  free ; 

(Birdis  sing  blythe  in  gay  green  wud.) 

The  harp  playde  on  its  leeful  lane, 

(Land  is  my  luvis  yellow  hair.) 
Quhill  it  has  charmit  stock  and  stane, 

(Furth  by  firth,  deir  lady  fare.) 


ELFINLAND      WUD.  91 

Quhan  scho  was  muntit  liim  behynd, 
(Blyth  be  hertis  quhilkis  luve  ilk  uther.) 

Awa  thai  flew  lyke  flauclit  of  wind ; 
( Kin  kens  kin,  and  bairnis  thair  mither. ) 

Nevir  ane  word  that  ladie  spak ; 

(Mim  be  maydens  men  besyde.) 
Bot  that  stout  steid  did  nicher  and  schaik ; 

(Smal  tilings  humbil  hertis  of  piyde.) 

About  his  breist  scho  plet  her  handis ; 

(Luvand  be  may  dins  quhan  thai  lykc.) 
Bot  thay  were  cauld  as  yron  bandis. 

(The  winter  bauld  bindis  sheuch  and  syke.) 

Your  handis  ar  cauld,  fayr  ladie,  sayd  hee, 
(The  caulder  hand  the  trewer  hairt.) 

I  trembil  als  the  lief  on  the  tree ; 

(Licht  caussis  muve  aid  friendis  to  pant.) 

Lap  your  mantil  owir  your  heid, 

(My  luve  was  clad  in  the  reid  scarlett,) 

And  spredd  your  kirtil  o\vir  my  stede  ; 
(Thair  nevir  was  joie  that  had  nae  lett) 


92  E  L  F  I  N  L  A  N  D      \V  L  D  . 

The  ladie  scho  wald  nocht  dispute ; 

(Nocht  woman  is  scho  that  laikis  ane  tung.) 
But  canlder  hir  fingeris  about  him  cruik. 

( Sum  sangis  ar  writt,  bot  nevir  sung.) 

This  Elfinland  wud  will  neir  liaif  end ; 

(Hunt  quha  listis,  daylicht  for  mee.) 
I  wuld  I  culd  ane  strang  bow  bend, 

( M  undirneth  the  grene  wud  tree.) 

Thai  radc  up,  and  they  rade  doun, 
( Wearilie  wearis  wan  nicht  away.) 

Erl  William's  heart  mair  cauld  is  grown ; 
( Hey,  luve  mine,  quhan  dawis  the  day  ?) 

Your  hand  lies  cauld  on  my  briest-bane, 

( Smal  hand  hes  my  ladie  fair,) 
My  horss  he  can  nocht  stand  his  lane, 

( For  cauldness  of  this  midnicht  air. ) 

Erl  William  turnit  his  heid  about ; 

(The  braid  mime  schinis  in  lift  richt  cleir.) 
Twa  Elfin  een  are  glentin  owt, 

(My  luvis  een  like  twa  sternis  appere.) 


ELFINLANDWUD.  93 

Twa  brennand  eyne,  sua  bricht  and  full, 

(Bonnilie  blinkis  my  ladeis  ee,) 
Flang  fire  flauchtis  fra  ane  peelit  skull; 

(Sum  siclits  ar  ugsomlyk  to  see.) 

Twa  rawis  of  quhyt  teeth  then  did  say, 
(Cauld  the  boysteous  windis  sal  blaw,) 

O,  lang  and  \veary  is  our  way, 

(And  donkir  yet  the  dew  maun  fa.') 

Far  owir  mure,  and  far  owir  fell, 

(Hark  the  sounding  huntsmen  thrang;) 

Thorow  dingle,  and  thorow  dell, 
(Luve,  come,  hst  the  merlis  sang.) 

Tliorow  fire,  and  thorow  flude, 

(Mudy  mindis  rage  lyk  a  sea;) 
Thorow  slauchtir,  thorow  blude, 

(A  seamless  shrowd  weird  schaipis  for  me  !) 

And  to  rede  aricht  my  spell, 

Eerilie  sal  nicht  w^yndis  moan, 
Quhill  fleand  Hevin  and  raikand  Hell, 

Ghaist  with  ghaist  maun  wandir  on. 


MIDNIGHT  AND  MOONSHINE. 

ALL  earth  below,  all  heaven  above, 
In  this  calm  hour,  are  filled  with  Love ; 
All  sights,  all  sounds  have  throbbing  hearts, 
In  winch  its  blessed  fountain  starts, 
And  gushes  forth  so  fresh  and  free, 
Like  a  soul-thrilling  melody. 

Look !  look !  the  land  is  sheathed  in  light, 

And  mark  the  winding  stream. 
How,  creeping  round  yon  distant  height, 

Its  ripling  waters  gleam. 
Its  waters  flash  through  leaf  and  flower,  — 

O !  merrily  they  go ; 
Like  living  things,  their  voices  pour 

Dim  music  as  they  flow. 
Sinless  and  pure  they  seek  the  sea, 
As  souls  pant  for  eternity ;  — 
Heaven  speed  their  bright  course  till  they  sleep 
In  the  broad  bosom  of  the  deep. 

High  in  mid  air,  on  seraph  wing, 
The  paley  moon  is  journeying 


MIDNIGHT      AND      MOONSHINE.  95 

In  stillest  path  of  stainless  blue ; 
Keen,  curious  stars  are  peering  through 
Heaven's  arch  this  hour ;  they  dote  on  her 
With  perfect  love ;  nor  can  she  stir 
Within  her  vaulted  halls  a  pace, 
Ere  rushing  out  with  joyous  face, 

These  Godkins  of  the  sky 
Smile,  as  she  glides  in  loveliness ; 

While  every  heart  beats  high 
With  passion,  and  breaks  forth  to  bless 

Her  loftier  divinity. 

It  is  a  smile  worth  worlds  to  win,  — 
So  full  of  love,  so  void  of  sin, 
The  smile  she  sheds  on  these  tall  trees, 
Stout  children  of  past  centuries. 
Each  little  leaf  with  feathery  light, 

Is  margined  marvellously ; 
Moveless  all  droop,  in  slumberous  quiet ; 

How  beautiful  they  be ! 
And  blissful  as  soft  infants  lulled 

Upon  a  mother's  knee. 

Far  down  yon  dell  the  melody 
Of  a  small  brook  is  audible ; 


9G  MIDNIGHT      AND      MOONSHINE. 

The  shadow  of  a  thread-like  tone,  — 
It  murmurs  over  root  and  stone, 

Yet  sings  of  very  love  its  fill ;  — 
And  hark !  even  now,  how  sweetly  shrill 

It  trolls  its  fairy  glee, 
Skywards  unto  that  pure  bright  one  ; 

O !  gentle  heart  hath  she, 
For,  leaning  down  to  earth,  with  pleasure, 
She  lists  its  fond  and  prattling  measure. 

It  is  indeed  a  silent  night 
Of  peace,  of  joy,  and  purest  light ;  — 
No  angry  breeze  in  surly  tone, 
Chides  the  old  forest  till  it  moan ; 
Or  breaks  the  dreaming  of  the  owl, 

That,  warder-like,  on  yon  gray  tower, 
Feedeth  his  melancholy  soul 

With  visions  of  departed  power ; 
And  o'er  the  ruins  Time  hath  sped, 
Nods  sadly  with  Ms  spectral  head. 

And  lo  !  even  like  a  giant  wight 
Slumbering  his  battle  toils  away, 

The  sleep-locked  city,  gleaming  bright 
With  many  a  dazzling  ray, 


MIDNIGHT      AND      MOONSHINE.  97 

Lies  stretched  in  vastness  at  my  feet ; 
Voiceless  the  chamber  and  the  street, 

And  echoless  the  hall ;  — 
Had  Death  uplift  his  bony  hand 
And  smote  all  living  on  the  land, 

No  deeper  quiet  could  fall. 
In  this  religious  calm  of  night, 
Behold,  with  finger  tall  and  bright, 
Each  tapering  spire  points  to  the  sky, 
In  a  fond,  holy  ecstasy ;  — 
Strange  monuments  they  be  of  mind,  — 
Of  feelings  dim  and  undefined, 
Shaping  themselves,  yet  not  the  less, 
In  forms  of  passing  loveliness. 

0  God !  this  is  a  holy  hour :  — 
Thy  breath  is  o'er  the  land ; 

1  feel  it  in  each  little  flower 

Around  me  where  I  stand,  — 
In  ah1  the  moonshine  scattered  fair, 
Above,  below  me,  everywhere,  — 
In  every  dew-bead  glistening  sheen, 
In  every  leaf  and  blade  of  green,  — 
And  in  tin's  silence  grand  and  deep, 
Wherein  thy  blessed  creatures  sleep. 
8 


96  MIDNIGHT      AND      MOONSHINE. 

The  trees  send  forth  their  shadows  long- 
In  gambols  o'er  the  earth, 

To  chase  each  other's  innocence 
In  quiet,  holy  mirth ; 

O'er  the  glad  meadows  fast  they  throng, 
Shapes  multiform  and  tall ; 

And  lo !  for  them  the  chaste  moonbeam, 
With  broadest  light  doth  fall. 

Mad  phantoms  all,  they  onward  glide,  — 

On  swiftest  wind  they  seem  to  ride 
O'er  meadow,  mount  and  stream : 

And  now,  with  soft  and  silent  pace, 
They  walk  as  in  a  dream, 

While  each  bright  earth-flower  hides  its  face 

Of  blushes,  in  their  dim  embrace. 

Men  say,  that  in  this  midnight  hour, 
The  disembodied  have  power 
To  wander  as  it  liketh  them, 
By  wizard  oak  and  fairy  stream, — 

Through  still  and  solemn  places, 
And  by  old  walls  and  tombs,  to  dream, 

With  pale,  cold,  mournful  faces, 
I  fear  them  not ;  for  they  must  be 
Spirits  of  kindest  sympathy, 


MIDNIGHT      AND      MOONSHINE.  99 

Who  choose  such  haunts,  and  joy  to  feel 
The  beauties  of  this  calm  night  steal 
Like  music  o'er  them,  while  they  wooed 
The  luxury  of  Solitude. 

Welcome,  ye  gentle  spirits ;  then, 

Who  love  and  feel  for  earth-chained  men,  — 

Who,  in  this  hour,  delight  to  dwell 

By  moss-clad  oak  and  dripping  cell,  — 

Who  joy  to  haunt  each  age-dimmed  spot, 

Which  ruder  natures  have  forgot ; 

And,  in  majestic  solitude, 

Feel  every  pulse-stroke  thrill  of  good 

To  all  around,  below,  above;  — 

Ye  are  the  co-mates  whom  I  love ! 

While,  lingering  in  this  moonshine  glade, 

I  dream  of  hopes  that  cannot  fade ; 

And  pour  abroad  those  phantasies 

That  spring  from  holiest  sympathies 

With  Nature's  moods  in  this  glad  hour 

Of  silence,  moonshine,  beauty,  power, 

When  the  busy  stir  of  man  is  gone, 

And  the  soul  is  left  with  its  God  alone  ! 


THE  WATER!    THE  WATER! 

THE  Water;  the  Water! 

The  joyous  brook  for  me, 
That  tuneth  through  the  quiet  night, 

Its  ever-living  glee. 
The  Water!  the  Water! 

That  sleepless  merry  heart, 
Which  gurgles  on  unstintedly, 

And  loveth  to  impart 
To  all  around  it  some  small  measure 
Of  its  own  most  perfect  pleasure. 

The  Water !  the  Water ! 

The  gentle  stream  for  me, 
That  gushes  from  the  old  gray  stone, 

Beside  the  alder  tree. 
The  Water!  the  Water! 

That  ever-bubbling  spring 
I  loved  and  looked  on  while  a  child, 

In  deepest  wondering,  — 
And  asked  it  whence  it  came  and  went, 
And  when  its  treasures  would  be  spent 


THE    WATER!    THE  ;WAU'/I;R! 


The  Water !  the  Water ! 

The  merry,  wanton  brook, 
That  bent  itself  to  pleasure  me, 

Like  mine  own  shepherd  crook. 
The  Water !  the  Water ! 

That  sang  so  sweet  at  noon, 
And  sweeter  still  all  night,  to  win 

Smiles  from  the  pale  proud  moon, 
And  from  the  little  fairy  faces 
That  gleam  in  heaven's" remotest  places. 

The  Water !  the  Water ! 

The  dear  and  blessed  thing, 
That  all  day  fed  the  little  flowers 

On  its  banks  blossoming. 
The  Water !  the  Water !  - 

That  murmured  in  my  ear, 
Hymns  of  a  saint-like  purity, 

That  angels  well  might  hear ; 
And  whisper  in  the  gates  of  heaven, 
How  meek  a  pilgrim  had  been  shriven. 

The  Water !  the  Water ! 
Where  I  have  shed  salt  tears, 


THE      \V  A  T  E  R  !    THE    WATER! 

la  loneliness  and  friendliness, 

A  thing  of  tender  years. 
The  Water!  the  Water! 

Where  I  have  happy  been, 
And  showered  upon  its  bosom  flowers 

Culled  from  each  meadow  green, 
And  idly  hoped  my  life  would  be 
So  crowned  by  love's  idolatry. 

The  Water!  the  Water! 

My  heart  yet  burns  to  think 
How  cool  thy  fountain  sparkled  forth, 

For  parched  lip  to  drink. 
The  Water!   the  Water! 

Of  mine  own  native  glen ; 
The  gladsome  tongue  I  oft  have  heard, 

But  ne'er  shall  hear  again ; 
Though  fancy  fills  my  ear  for  aye 
With  sounds  that  live  so  far  away ! 

The  Water !  the  Water ! 

The  mild  and  glassy  wave, 
Upon  whose  broomy  banks  I  Ve  longed 

To  find  my  silent  grave. 


THE  WATER!  THE  WATER!     103 

The  Water!  the  Water! 

O  blessed  to  me  thou  art ; 
Thus  sounding  in  life's  solitude, 

The  music  of  my  heart, 
And  filling  it,  despite  of  sadness, 
With  dreamings  of  departed  gladness. 

The  Water !  the  Water ! 

The  mournful  pensive  tone, 
That  whispered  to  my  heart  how  soon 

This  weary  life  was  done. 
The  Water »  the  Water! 

That  rolled  so  bright  and  free, 
And  bade  me  mark  how  beautiful 

Was  its  soul's  purity : 
And  how  it  glanced  to  heaven  its  wave, 
As  wandering  on  it  sought  its  grave. 


THREE    FANCIFUL   SUPPOSES. 

WERE  I  a  breath  of  viewless  wind, 

As  very  spirits  be, 
Where  would  I  joy  at  length  to  find 

I  was  no  longer  free  ? 
O,  Margaret's  cheek, 
Whose  blushes  speak 

Love's  purest  sympathies, 
Would  be  the  site,        „ 
Where,  gleaming  bright, 

My  prison-dome  should  rise : 
I  'd  live  upon  that  rosy  shore, 

And  fan  it  with  soft  sighs, 
Nor  other  paradise  explore 

Beneath  the  skies. 

Were  I  a  pranksome  Elfin  knight, 

Or  eke  the  Faerye  king, 
Who  when  the  moonshine  glimmers  bright, 

Loves  to  be  wandering ; 
Where  would  I  ride, 


THREE1      FANCIFUL      SUPPOSES.  105 

In  all  the  pride 

Of  Elfin  chivalry, 
With  each  sweet  sound 
Far  floating  round, 

Of  Faerye  minstrelsy  ?  — 
'T  is  o'er  her  neck  of  drifted  snow, 

Her  passion-breathing  lip, 
Her  dainty  chin  and  noble  brow, 

That  I  would  trip. 

Were  I  a  glossy  plumaged  bird, 

A  small  glad  voice  of  song, 
Where  would  my  love-lays  aye  be  heard,  — 

Where  would  I  nestle  long?  — 
In  Margaret's  ear 
When  none  were  near,    . 

I  'd  strain  my  little  throat, 
To  sing  fond  lays 
In  Margaret's  praise, 

That  could  not  be  forgot ; 
Then  on  her  bosom  would  I  fall, 

And  from  it  never  part,  — 
Dizzy  with  joy,  and  proud  to  call 

My  home  her  heart ! 


A  CAVEAT  TO  THE  WLND. 


SING  high,  sing  low,  thou  moody  wind, 

]t  skills  not,  —  for  thy  glee 
Is  ever  of  a  fellow-kind 

With  mine  own  fantasy. 
Go,  sadly  moan  or  madly  blow 

In  fetterless  free  will, 
Wild  spirit  of  the  clouds !  but  know 

I  ride  thy  comrade  still : 
Loving  thy  humors,  I  can  be 
Sad,  wayward,  wild,  or  mad,  like  thee. 

Go,  and  with  light  and  noiseless  wing. 

Fan  yonder  murmuring  stream,  — 
Brood  o'er  it,  as  the  sainted  thing, 

The  spirit  of  its  dream ; 
Give  to  its  voice  a  sweeter  tone 

Of  calm  and  heartfelt  gladness; 


A      CAVEAT      TO      THE      W  1  N  D  .  107 

Of,  to  those  old  trees,  woe-bcgone, 
Add  moan  of  deeper  sadness,  — 
It  likes  me  still ;  for  I  can  be 
All  sympathy  of  heart,  like  thee. 

Rush  forth,  in  maddest  wrath,  to  rouse 

The  billows  of  the  deep ; 
And  in  the  blustering  storm,  carouse 

With  fiends  that  never  weep. 
Go,  tear  each  fluttering  rag  away, 

Outshriek  the  mariner, 
And  hoarsely  knell  the  mermaid's  lay 

Of  death  and  shipwreck  drear ;  — 
What  reck  I,  since  I  still  dare  be 
Harsh,  fierce,  and  pitiless,  like  thee  ? 

1  love  thy  storm- shout  on  the  land, 

Thy  storm-shout  on  the  sea ; 
Though  shapes  of  death  rise  on  each  hand, 

Dismay  troops  not  with  me, 
AVith  iron-cheek,  that  never  showed 

The  channel  of  a  tear, 
With  haughty  heart,  that  never  bowed 

Beneath  a  dastard  fear, 


108  A      CAVEAT      TO      THE      WIND. 

I  rash  with  thee  o'er  land  and  sea, 
Rejoicing  in  thy  thundering  glee. 

Lovest  thou  those  cloisters,  old  and  dim, 

Where  ghosts  at  midnight  stray, 
To  pour  abroad  unearthly  hymn, 

And  fright  the  stars  away  ? 
Add  to  their  sighs  thy  hollow  tone 

Of  saddest  melancholy, — 
For  I,  too,  love  such  places  lone, 

And  court  such  guests  unjolly : 
Such  haunts,  such  mates,  in  sooth,  to  me 
Be  welcome  as  they  are  to  thee. 

Blow  as  thou  wilt,  blow  anywhere, 

Wild  spirit  of  the  sky, 
It  matters  not,  —  earth,  ocean,  air, 

Still  echoes  to  my  cry, 
'  I  follow  thee ; '  for,  where  thou  art, 

My  spirit,  too,  must  be, 
While  each  chord  of  this  wayward  heart, 

Thrills  to  thy  minstrelsy ; 
And,  he  that  feels  so,  sure  must  be 
Meet  co -mate  for  a  shrew  like  thee  ! 


WHAT  IS  GLORY?    WHAT  IS  FAME? 


WHAT  is  Glory  ?     What  is  Fame  ? 
The  echo  of  a  long  lost  name ; 
A  breath,  an  idle  hour's  brief  talk ; 
The  shadow  of  an  arrant  nought ; 
A  flower  that  blossoms  for  a  day, 

Dying  next  morrow ; 
A  stream  that  hurries  on  its  way, 

Singing  of  sorrow ;  — 
The  last  drop  of  a  bootless  shower, 
Shed  on  a  sere  and  leafless  bower ; 
A  rose,  stuck  in  a  dead-man's  breast,  - 
This  is  the  World's  fame  at  the  best! 

What  is  Fame  ?  and  what  is  Glory  ? 

A  dream,  —  a  jester's  lying  story, 

To  tickle  fools  withal,  or  be 

A  theme  for  second  infancy ; 

A  joke  scrawled  on  an  epitaph ; 

A  grin  at  Death's  own  ghastly  laugh ; 


110  GLORY      AND      FAME. 

A  visioning  that  tempts  the  eye, 
But  mocks  the  touch,  —  nonentity; 
A  rainbow,  substanceless  as  bright, 

Flitting  for  ever 
O'er  hill-top  to  more  distant  height, 

Nearing  us  never; 
A  bubble  blown  by  fond  conceit, 
In  very  sooth  itself  to  cheat ; 
The  witch-foe  of  a  frenzied  brain ; 
A  fortune  that  to  lose  were  gain ; 
A  word  of  praise  perchance  of  blame 
The  wreck  of  a  time-bandied  name,  — 
Ay,  This  is  glory !  —  this  is  Fame ! 


THE  SOLEMN  SONG  OF  A  RIGHTEOUS  HEARTE, 


After  thn  fashion  of  an  early  English  Port. 


THERE  is  a  mighty  Noyse  of  Bells 

Rushing  from  the  turret  free ; 
A  solemne  tale  of  Trathe  it  tells, 

O'er  Land  and  Sea, 
How  heartes  be  breaking  fast,  and  then 

Wax  whole  againe. 

Poor  fluttering  Soule !  why  tremble  soe, 
To  quitt  Lyfe's  fast  decaying  Tree ; 

Time  wormes  its  core,  and.  it  must  bowe 
To  Fate's  decree ; 

Its  last  branch  breakes,  but  Thou  must  soare, 
For  Evermore. 

Noe  more  thy  wing  shal  touch  grosse  Earth  ; 
Far  under  shal  its  shadows  flee, 


112  THE      SOLEMN      SONG      OF 

And  al  its  sounds  of  Woe  or  Mirth 

Growe  strange  to  thee. 
Thou  wilt  not  mingle  in  its  noyse, 

Nor  court  its  Joies. 

Fond  One !  why  cling  thus  unto  Life, 
As  if  its  gaudes  were  meet  for  thee ; 

Surely  its  Follie,  Bloodshed,  Stryfe, 
Liked  never  thee  ? 

This  World  growes  madder  each  newe  daie, 
Vice  beares  such  sway. 

Couldst  thou  in  Slavish  artes  excel, 

And  crawle  upon  the  supple  knee,  — 

Couldst  thou  each  Woe-worn  wretch  repel,  - 
This  Worldes  for  Thee. 

Not  in  this  Spheare  Man  ownes  a  Brother : 
Then  seek  another. 

Couldst  thou  bewraie  thy  Birthright  soe 
As  flatter  Guilt's  prosperitye, 

And  laude  Oppressiounes  iron  blowe,  — 
This  Worldes  for  Thee. 

Sithence  to  this  thou  wilt  not  bend, 
Life  's  at  an  end. 


A     RIGHTEOUS      HEARTE.  113 

Couldst  thou  spurn  Vertue  meanly  clad, 

As  if  't  were  spotted  Infamy, 
And  prayse  as  Good  what  is  most  Bad,  — 

This  Worldes  for  Thee. 
Sithence  thou  canst  not  will  it  soe, 

Poor  Fltitterer  goe ! 

If  Head  with  Hearte  could  so  accord, 

In  bond  of  .perfyte  Amitie, 
That  Falshood  raigned  in  Thoughte,  Deed,  Word, — 

This  Worldes  for  Thee. 
But  scorning  guile,  Truth-plighted  one ! 

Thy  race  is  run. 

Couldst  thou  laughe  loude,  when  grieved  hearts  weep, 
And  Fiendlyke  probe  theire-  Agonye, 

Rich  harvest  here  thou  soon  wouldst  reape,  — 
This  Worldes  for  Thee ; 

But  with  the  Weeper  thou  must  weepe, 
And  sad  watch  keep. 

Couldst  thou  smyle  swete  when  Wrong  hath  wrung 
The  withers  of  the  Poore  but  Prowde, 

And  by  the  rootes  pluck  out  the  tongue 
That  dare  be  lowde 
9 


114         SONG    OF    A    RIGHTEOUS    HEAB.TE. 

In  Righteous  cause,  whate'er  may  be,  — 
Tliis  Worldes  for  Thee. 

This  canst  thou  not !     Then,  fluttering  thing, 

Unstained  in  thy  puritye, 
Sweep  towards  heaven  with  tireless  wing,  — 

Meet  Home  for  Thee. 
Feare  not,  the  crashing  of  Lyfe's  Tree,  — 

God's  Love  guides  Thee. 

And  thus  it  is :  —  these  solemn  bells, 

Swinging  in  the  turret  free, 
And  tolling  forth  theire  sad  farewells, 

O'er  Land  and  Sea, 
Telle  how  Hearts  breake,  full  fast,  and  then 

Growe  whole  againe. 


MELANCHOLYE. 


ADIEU  !  al  vaine  delightes 
Of  calm  and  moonshine  nightes  ; 
Adieu !  al  pleasant  shade 
That  forests  thicke  have  made ; 
Adieu !  al  musick  swete 

That  little  fountaynes  poure, 
When  blythe  theire  waters  greete 

The  lovesick  lyly-nqwre. 

Adieu !  the  fragrant  smel 

Of  flowres  in  boskye  dell ; 

And  all  the  merrie  notes 

That  tril  from  smal  birdes'  throates  ; 

Adieu !  the  gladsome  lighte 

Of  Day,  Morne,  Noone,  or  E'en ; 
And  welcome  gloomy  Nighte, 

When  not  one  star  is  scene. 

Adieu  !  the  deafening  noyse 
Of  cities,  and  the  joyes 


116  ME  LANCHOLYE  . 

Of  Fashioun's  sicklie  birth ; 
Adieu !  al  boysterous  mirthe, 
Al  pageant,  pompe,  and  state, 

And  every  flauntynge  thing 
To  which  the  would-be -great 

Of  earth  in  madness  cling. 

Come  with  me,  Melancholye, 
We  '11  live  like  eremites  holie, 
In  some  deepe  uncouthe  wild 
Where  sunbeame  never  smylde : 
Come  with  me,  pale  of  hue, 

To  some  lone  silent  spot, 
Where  blossom  never  grewe, 

Which  man  hath  quyte  forgot. 

Come,  with  thy  thought-filled  eye, 
That  notes  no  passer  by, 
And  drouping  solemne  heade, 
Where  phaiisyes  strange  are  bred, 
And  saddening  thoughts  doe  brood, 

Which  idly  strive  to  borrow 
A  smyle  to  vaile  thy  moode 

Of  heart-abyding  sorrow. 


MELANCHOLYE.  117 

Come  to  yon  blasted  mound 
Of  phantom-haunted  ground, 
Where  spirits  love  to  be  ; 
And  liste  the  moody  glee 
Of  nighte-windes  as  they  moane, 

And  the  ocean's  sad  replye 
To  the  wild  unhallowed  tone 

Of  the  wandering  sea-bird's  cry. 

There  sit  with  me  and  keep 
Vigil  when  al  doe  sleepe ; 
And  when  the  curfeu  bell 
Hath  rung  its  mournfull  knel, 
Let  us  together  blend 

Our  mutual  sighes  and  teares, 
Or  chaunt  some  metre,  penned, 

Of  the  joies  of  other  yeares. 

Or  in  cavern  hoare  and  damp, 
Lit  by  the  glow-worm's  lampe, 
We  '11  muse  on  the  dull  theme 
Of  Life's  heart-sickening  dreame,  — 
Of  Time's  resistlesse  powre,  — 
Of  Hope's  deceitful  lips,  — 


118  ME  L  ANC  HOLYE. 

Of  Beauty's  short-livde  houre,  — 
And  Glory's  dark  eclipse ! 

Or,  wouldst  thou  rather  chuse 
This  World's  leaf  to  perase, 
Beneath  some  dripping  vault 
That  scomes  rude  Time's  assaulte ; 
Whose  close-ribbed  arches  still 

Frown  in  their  green  old  age, 
And  stamp  an  awefull  chill 

Upon  that  pregnant  page  ? 

Yes,  thither  let  us  turne, 
To  this  Time-shattered  time, 
And  quaintly  carved  stone,  — 
Dim  wrackes  of  ages  gone ; 
Here,  on  this  mouldering  tomb 

We  '11  con  that  noblest  truth, 
The  Flesh  and  Spirit's  doome,  — 

Dust  and  Immortall  Youthe. 


I   AM   NOT    SAD. 


I  AM  not  sad,  though  sadness  seem 

At  times  to  cloud  my  brow ; 
I  cherished  once  a  foolish  dream,  — 
Thank  Heaven  't  is  not  so  now. 
Truth's  sunshine  broke, 
And  I  awoke 

To  feel 't  was  right  to  bow 
To  Fate's  decree,  and  this  my  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb. 

I  grieve  not,  though  a  tear  may  fill 

This  glazed  and  vacant  eye ; 
Old  thoughts  will  rise,  do  what  we  will, 
But  soon  again  they  die ; 
Ail  idle  gush, 
And  all  is  hush,        .' 
The  fount  is  soon  run  dry  : 
And  cheerly  now  I  meet  my  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb. 


120  I      AM      NOT      SAD. 

I  am  not  mad,  although  I  see 
Tilings  of  no  better  mould 
Than  I  myself  am,  greedily 
In  Fame's  bright  page  enrolled, 
That  they  may  tell 
The  stoiy  well, 

What  shines  may  not  be  gold. 
No,  no !  content  I  court  my  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb. 

The  luck  is  theirs,  —  the  loss  is  mine, 

And  yet  no  loss  at  all ; 
.    The  mighty  ones  of  eldest  time, 
I  ask  where  they  did  fall  ? 
Tell  me  the  one 
Who  e'er  could  shun. 
Touch  with  Oblivion's  pall? 
All  bear  with  me  an  equal  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb. 

Brave  temple  and  huge  pyramid, 

Hill  sepulchred  by  art, 
The  barrow  acre-vast  where  hid 

Moulders  some  Nimrod's  heart; 


I     AM      NOT      SAD.  121 

Each  monstrous  birth 

Cumbers  old  earth, 
But  acts  a  voiceless  part, 
Resolving  all  to  mine  own  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb. 

Tradition  with  her  palsied  hand, 

And  purblind  History,  may 
Grope  and  guess  well  that  in  this  land 
Some  great  one  lived  his  day ; 
And  what  is  this, 
Blind  hit  or  miss, 
But  labor  thrown  away, 
For  counterparts  to  mine  own  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb  ? 

I  do  not  peak  and  pine  away, 
Lo !  tins  deep  bowl  I  quaff; 
If  sigh  I  do,  you  still  must  say 
It  sounds  more  like  a  laugh. 
'T  is  not  too  late 
To  separate 

The  good  seed  from  the  chaff; 
And  scoff  at  those  who  scorn  my  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb. 


122  i    AM    NOT    SAD. 

I  spend  no  sigh,  I  shed  no  tear, 

Though  life's  first  dream  is  gone ; 
And  its  bright  picturings  now  appear 
Cold  images  of  stone ; 
I  've  learned  to  see 
The  vanity 

Of  lusting  to  be  known, 
And  gladly  hail  my  changeless  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  Nameless  Tomb ! 


THE  JOYS  OF   THE   WILDERNESS. 


I  HAVE  a  wish,  and  it  is  this,  that  in  some  uncouth 
glen, 

It  were  my  lot  to  find  a  spot  unknown  by  selfish  men ; 

Where  I  might  be  securely  free,  like  Eremite  of  old, 

From  Worldly  guile,  from  Woman's  wile,  and  Friend- 
ships brief  and  cold ; 

And  where  I  might,  with  stern  delight,  enjoy  the 
varied  form 

Of  Nature's  mood,  in  every  rude  burst  of  the  thun- 
dering storm. 

Then  would  my  life,  lacking  fierce  strife,  glide  on  in 

dreamy  gladness, 
Nor  would  I  know  the  cark  and  woe  which  come  of 

this  world's  madness ; 
While  in  a  row,  like  some  poor  show,  its  pageantries 

would  pass, 
Without  a  sigh,  before  mine  eye,  as  shadows  o'er  a 

glass : 


124  JOYS     OF     THE     WILDERNESS. 

Nonentity  these  shadows  be,  — and  yet,  good  Lord ! 

how  brave 
That  knavish  rout  doth  strut  and  flout,  then  shrink 

into  the  grave ! 

The  Wilderness  breathes  gentleness ;  —  these  waters 

bubbling  free, 
The  gallant  breeze  that  stirs  the  trees,  form  Heaven's 

own  melody ; 
The  far-stretched  sky,  with  its  bright  eye,  pours  forth 

a  tide  of  love 
On   every  thing  that  here  doth  spring,  on  all  that 

glows  above. 
But  live  with  man,  —  his  dark  heart  scan,  —  its  paltry 

selfishness 
Will  show  to  thee,  why  men  like  me,  love  the  lone 

Wilderness ! 


A   SOLEMN    CONCEIT. 


STATELY  trees  are  growing, 
Lusty  winds  are  blowing, 
And  mighty  rivers  flowing 

On,  for  ever  on. 

As  stately  forms  were  growing, 
As  lusty  spirits  blowing, 
And  as  mighty  fancies  flowing 

On,  for  ever  on ;  — 
But  there  has  been  leave-taking, 
Sorrow  and  heart-breaking, 
And  a  moan,  pale  Echo's  making, 

For  the  gone,  for  ever  gone  ! 

Lovely  stars  are  gleaming, 
Bearded  lights  are  streaming, 
And  glorious  suns  are  beaming 

On,  for  ever  on. 
As  lovely  eyes  were  gleaming, 
As  wondrous  lights  were  streaming 


126  A      SOLEMN      CONCEIT. 

And  as  glorious  minds  were  beaming 

On,  for  ever  on ;  — 
But  there  has  been  soul-sundering, 
Wailing,  and  sad  wondering ; 
For  graves  grow  fat  with  plundering 

The  gone,  for  ever  gone ! 

"We  see  great  eagles  soaring, 
We  hear  deep  oceans  roaring, 
And  sparkling  fountains  pouring 

On,  for  ever  on. 
As  lofty  minds  were  soaring, 
As  sonorous  voices  roaring, 
And  as  sparkling  wits  were  pouring 

On,  for  ever  on ;  — 
But,  pinions  have  been  shedding, 
And  voiceless  darkness  spreading, 
Since  a  measure  Death  's  been  treading 

O'er  the  gone,  for  ever  gone ! 

Every  thing  is  sundering, 
Every  one  is  wondering, 
And  this  huge  globe  goes  thundering, 
On,  for  ever  on. 


A      SOLEMN      CONCEIT.  127 

But,  'mid  this  weary  sundering, 
Heart-breaking,  and  sad  wondering, 
And  this  huge  globe's  rude  thundering 

On,  for  ever  on, 
I  would  that  I  were  dreaming 
Where  little  flowers   are  gleaming, 
And  the  long  green  grass  is  streaming 

O'er  the  gone,  for  ever  gone ! 


THE    EXPATRIATED. 


No  bird  is  singing 

In  cloud  or  on  tree, 
No  eye  is  beaming 

Glad  welcome  to  me ; 
The  forest  is  tuneless ; 

Its  brown  leaves  fast  fall  — 
Changed  and  withered,  they  fleet 

Like  hollow  friends  all. 

No  door  is  thrown  open, 

No  banquet  is  spread ; 
No  hand  smooths  the  pillow 

For  the  Wanderers  head ; 
But  the  eye  of  distrust 

Sternly  measures  his  way, 
And  glad  are  the  cold  lips 

That  wish  him  —  good  day ! 

Good  day  ! —  I  am  grateful 
For  such  gentle  prayer, 


THE      EXPATRIATED.  129 

Though  scant  be  the  cost 

Of  that  morsel  of  air. 
Will  it  clothe,  will  it  feed  me, 

Or  rest  my  worn  frame  ? 
Good  day !  wholesome  diet, 

A  proud  heart  to  tame. 

Now  the  sun  dusks  his  glories 

Below  the  blue  sea, 
And  no  star  its  splendor 

Deems  worthy  of  me  ; 
The  path  I  must  travel, 

Grows  dark  as  my  fate, 
And  nature,  like  man,  can 

Wax  savage  in  hate. 

My  country  !  my  country ! 

Though  step -dame  thou  be, 
Yet  my  heart,  in  its  anguish, 

Cleaves  fondly  to  thee ; 
Still  in  fancy  it  lingers 

By  mountain  and  stream, 
And  thy  name  is  the  spirit 

That  rules  its  wild  dream. 
10 


130 


THE      EXPATRIATED. 

This  heart  loved  thee  truly,  — 

And,  O !  it  bled  free, 
When  it  led  on  to  glory 

Thy  proud  chivalry ; 
And,  O  !  it  gained  much  from 

Thy  prodigal  hand,  — 
The  freedom  to  break  in 

The  stranger's  cold  land ! 


FACTS   FROM  FAIRYLAND. 

•O  then,  I  see,  Queen  Mat  hath  been  with  you!' 

WOULDST  thou  know  of  me 

Where  our  dwellings  be  ? 

'T  is  under  this  hill, 

Where  the  moonbeam  chill 
Silvers  the  leaf  and  brightens  the  blade,  — 

'Tis  under  this  mound 

Of  greenest  ground, 
That  our  crystal  palaces,  are  made. 

Wouldst  thou  know  of  me 

What  our  food  may  be  ? 

'T  is  the  sweetest  breath 

Which  the  bright  flower  hath, 
That  blossoms  in  wilderness  afar,  — 

And  we  sip  it  up, 

In  a  harebell  cup, 
By  the  winking  light  of  the  tweering  star. 


132  FACTS      FROM     FAIRYLAND. 

Wouldst  thou  know  of  me 
What  our  drink  may  be  ? 
'T  is  the  freshest  dew, 
And  the  clearest,  too, 
That  ever  hung  on  leaf  or  flower ; 
And  merry  we  skink 
That  wholesome  drink, 
Thorough  the  quiet  of  the  midnight  hour. 

Wouldst  thou  know  of  me, 

What  our  pastimes  be  ? 

'T  is  the  hunt  and  halloo, 

The  dim  greenwood  tlirough ; 
O,  bravely  we  prance  it  with  hound  and  horn, 

O'er  moor  and  fell, 

And  hollow  dell, 
Till  the  notes  of  our  Woodcraft  wake  the  morn. 

Wouldst  thou  know  of  me 
What  our  garments  be  ? 
'T  is  the  viewless  thread, 
Which  the  gossamers  spread 
As  they  float  in  the  cool  of  a  summer  eve  bright, 


FACTS      FROM      FAIRYLAND.  133 

And  the  down  of  the  rose, 
Form  doublet  and  hose 
For  our  Squires  of  Dames  on  each  festal  night. 

Wouldst  thou  know  of  me 

When  our  revelries  be  ? 

'T  is  in  the  still  night, 

When  the  moonshine  white 
Glitters  in  glory  o'er  land  and  sea, 

That,  with  nimble  foot, 

To  tabor  and  flute, 
We  whirl  with  our  loves  round  yon  glad  old  tree . 


CERTAIN  PLEASANT  VERSES  TO  THE  LADY  OF 
MY  HEART. 

THE  murmur  of  the  merry  brook, 

As  gushingly  and  free 
It  wimples  with  its  sun-bright  look, 

Far  down  yon  sheltered  lea, 
Humming  to  every  drowsy  flower 

A  low,  quaint  lullaby, 
Speaks  to  my  spirit,  at  this  hour, 

Of  Love  and  thee. 

The  music  of  the  gay  green  wood, 

When  every  leaf  and  tree 
Is  coaxed  by  winds  of  gentlest  mood, 

To  utter  harmony ; 
And  the  small  birds  that  answer  make 

To  the  wind's  fitful  glee, 
In  me  most  blissful  visions  wake, 

Of  Love  and  thee. 

The  rose  perks  up  its  blushing  cheek, 
So  soon  as  it  can  see 


TO  THE  LADY  OF  MY  HEART.      135 

Along  the  eastern  hills,  one  streak 

Of  the  Sun's  majesty: 
Laden  with  dewy  gems,  it  gleams 

A  precious  freight  to  me, 
For  each  pure  drop  thereon  me  seems 

A  type  of  thee. 

And  when,  abroad  in  summer  morn, 

I  hear  the  blythe  bold  bee 
Winding  aloft  his  tiny  horn, 

(An  errant  knight  perdy,) 
That  winged  hunter  of  rare  sweets 

O'er  many  a  far  country, 
To  me  a  lay  of  love  repeats, 

Its  subject  —  thee. 

And  when,  in  midnight  hour,  I  note 

The  stars  so  pensively, 
In  then:  mild  beauty,  onward  float 

Through  heaven's  own  silent  sea; 
My  heart  is  in  their  voyaging 

To  realms  where  spirits  be, 
But  its  mate,  in  such  wandering, 

Is  ever  thee ! 


136  TO     THE     LADY     OF     MY     HEART. 

But  O,  the  murmur  of  the  brook, 

The  music  of  the  tree ; 
The  rose  with  its  sweet  shamefast  look , 

The  booming  of  the  bee ; 
The  course  of  each  bright  voyager 

In  heaven's  unmeasured  sea, 
Would  not  one  heart-pulse  of  me  stir, 

Loved  I  not  thee ! 


BENEATH  A  PLACID  BROW. 

BENEATH  a  placid  brow. 

And  tear-unstained  cheek, 
To  bear  as  I  do  now 

A  heart  that  well  could  break  ; 
To  simulate  a  smile 

Amid  the  wrecks  of  grief,  — 
To  herd  among  the  vile, 

And  therein  seek  relief,  — 
For  the  bitterness  of  thought 
Were  joyance  dearly  bought. 

When  will  man  learn  to  bear 

His  heart  nailed  on  his  breast, 
With  all  its  lines  of  care 

In  nakedness  confessed  ?  — 
Why,  in  this  solemn  mask 

Of  passion-wasted  life, 
Will  no  one  dare  the  task, 

To  speak  his  sorrows  rife  ?  — 
Will  no  one  bravely  tell, 
His  bosom  is  a  hell  ? 


138  BENEATH      A      PLACID    BROW. 

I  scorn  tliis  hated  scene 

Of  masking  and  disguise, 
Where  men  on  men  still  gleam, 

With  falseness  in  their  eyes ; 
Where  all  is  counterfeit, 

And  truth  hath  never  say ; 
Where  hearts  themselves  do  cheat, 

Concealing  hope's  decay. 
And  writhing  at  the  stake, 
Themselves  do  liars  make. 

Go,  search  thy  heart,  poor  fool ! 

And  mark  its  passions  well ; 
'T  were  time  to  go  to  school, — 

'T  were  time  the  truth  to  tell,  — 
'T  were  time  this  world  should  cast 

Its  infant  slough  away, 
And  hearts  burst  forth  at  last 

Into  the  light  of  day ;  — 
'T  were  time  all  learned  to  be 
Fit  for  Eternity! 


THE    COVENANTERS'  BATTLE    CHANT. 

To  BATTLE  !  to  battle ! 

To  slaughter  and  strife ! 
For  a  sad,  broken  Covenant 

We  barter  poor  life. 
The  great  God  of  Judah 

Shall  smite  with  our  hand, 
And  break  down  the  idols 

That  cumber  the  land. 

Uplift  every  voice 

In  prayer,  and  in  song; 
Remember  the  battle 

Is  not  to  the  strong ;  — 
Lo,  the  Ammonites  thicken ! 

And  onward  they  come, 
To  the  vain  noise  of  trumpet, 

Of  cymbal,  and  drum. 

They  haste  to  the  onslaught, 
With  hagbut  and  spear ; 


I 
THE    COVENANTERS' 

They  lust  for  a  banquet 
That 's  deathful  and  dear. 

Now,  horseman  and  footman, 
Sweep  down  the  hill-side : 

They  come,  like  fierce  Pharaohs, 
To  die  in  their  pride  ! 

See,  long  plume  and  pennon 

Stream  gay  in  the  air ; 
They  are  given  us  for  slaughter,  - 

Shall  God's  people  spare  ? 
Kay,  nay ;  lop  them  off;  — 

Friend,  father,  and  son ; 
All  earth  is  athirst  till 

The  good  work  be  done. 

Brace  tight  every  buckler, 

And  lift  high  the  sword ! 
For  biting  must  blades  be 

That  fight  for  the  Lord. 
Remember,  remember, 

How  Saints'  blood  was  shed, 
As  free  as  the  rain,  and 

Homes  desolate  made ! 


BATTLE      CHANT. 

Among  them !  —  among  them ! 

Unburied  bones  cry ; 
Avenge  us,  —  or,  like  us, 

Faith's  true  martyrs  die. 
Hew,  hew  down  the  spoilers ! 

Slay  on,  and  spare  none : 
Then  shout  forth  in  gladness, 

Heaven!  s  battle  is  won ! 


141 


TIM   THE   TACKET. 

A  Lyrical  Ballad,  supposed  to  be  written  by  W.  W. 


A  BARK  is  lying  on  the  sands, 
No  rippling  wave  is  sparkling  near  her; 
She  seems  unmanned  of  all  her  hands,  — 
There  's  not  a  soul  on  board  to  steer  her ! 

'Tis  strange  to  see  a  ship-shape  thing 
Upon  a  lonely  beach  thus  lying, 
"While  mystic  winds  for  ever  sing 
Among  its  shrouds  like  spirits  sighing. 

O,  can  it  be  a  spectre-ship, 

Forwearied  of  the  storm  and  ocean, 

That  here  hath  ended  its  last  trip, 

And  sought  repose  from  ceaseless  motion  ? 

I  deem  amiss :  for  yonder,  see, 

A  sailor  struts  in  dark-bluejacket, — 

A  little  man  with  face  of  glee,  — 

His  neighbors  call  him  Tim  the  Tacket. 


TIMTHETACKET.  113 

I  know  him  well ;  the  master  he 

Of  a  small  bark,  —  an  Irish  coaster ; 

His  heart  is  like  the  ocean,  free, 

And  like  the  breeze  his  tongue  's  a  boaster. 

He  is  a  father,  too,  I  'm  told, 
Of  children  ten,  and  some  say  twenty ; 
But  it 's  no  matter,  he  's  grown  old, 
And,  ten  or  more,  he  has  got  plenty  ! 

List !  now  he  sings  a  burly'  stave 

Of  waves  and  winds  and  shipwrecks  many, 

Of  flying  fish  and  dolphins  brave, 

Of  mermaids  lovely  but  uncanny. 

Right  oft,  I  ween,  he  joys  to  speak 

Of  slim  maids  in  the  green  waves  dancing, 

Or  singing  in  some  lonesome  creek, 

While  kembing  locks  like  sunbeams  glancing. 

O,  he  hath  tales  of  wondrous  things 
Spied  in  the  vast  and  gousty  ocean ; 
Of  monstrous  fish,  whose  giant  springs 
Give  to  the  seas  their  rocking  motion; 


144  TIM      THE      TACKET. 

And  serpents  huge  whose  rings  embrace 
Some  round  leagues  of  the  great  Pacific ; 
And  men  of  central  Lid,  sans  face, 
But  not  on  that  head  less  terrific ! 

Lo  !  he  hath  lit  a  brown  cigar, 
A  special,  smooth- skinned,  real  Havannah ; 
And  swirling  smoke  he  puffs  afar,  — 
'T  is  sweet  to  him  as  desert  manna  ! 

Away,  away  the  reek  doth  go, 
In  wiry  thread  or  heavy  volume  ; 
Now  black,  now  blue,  gold,  gray,  or  snow 
In  color,  and  in  height  a  column ! 

His  little  eyes,  deep-set,  and  hedged 
All  round  and  round  with  bristles  hoary, 
Do  twinkle  like  a  hawk's  new-Hedged,  — 
Sure  he  hath  dreams  of  marvellous  glory ! 

Well,  I  would  rather  be  that  wight, 
Contented,  puffing,  midst  his  tackling, 
Than  star-gemmed  lord  or  gartered  knight, 
In  masquerade  or  senate  cackling. 


TIM    THE    TACKET.  145 

He  suns  his  limbs  upon  the  deck, 
He  hears  the  music  of  the  ocean ; 
He  lives  not  on  another's  beck, 
He  pines  not  after  court  promotion. 

He  is  unto  himself,  —  he  is 
A  little  world  within  another ; 
And  furthermore  he  kiioweth  this, 
That  all  mankind  to  him  is  brother. 

He  sings  his  songs,  and  smokes  his  weed, 
He  spins  his  yarn  of  monstrous  fables, 
He  cracks  his  biscuit,  and  at  need 
Can  soundly  sleep  on  coiled-up  cables. 

Although  the  sea  be  sometimes  rough, 
His  bark  is  stout,  its  rudder  steady, 
At  other  whiles  't  is  calm  enough, 
And  buxom  as  a  gentle  lady. 

In  sooth,  too,  't  is  a  pleasant  thing, 
To  sail,  and  feel  the  sea-breeze  blowing 
About  one's  cheek,  —  O  !  such  doth  bring 
Full  many  a  free-born  thought  and  glowing. 
11 


146  TIM      THE      TACKET. 

For  who  upon  the  deep,  deep  sea, 

Ere  dwelt  and  saw  its  great  breast  heaving, 

But,  by  a  kindred  sympathy, 

Felt  his  own  heart  its  trammels  leaving  ? 

The  wide  and  wild,  the  strange  and  grand, 
Commingle  with  his  inmost  spirit ; 
He  feels  a  riddance  from  the  land,  — 
A  boundlessness  he  may  inherit 

Good  night,  thou  happy,  ancient  man ! 
Farewell,  thou  mariner  so  jolly ! 
I  pledge  thee  in  this  social  can, 
Thou  antipode  of  melancholy ! 


THE  WITCHES'  JOYS. 


WHEN  night  winds  rave 
O'er  the  fresh  scooped  grave, 
And  the  dead  therein  that  he, 
Glare  upward  to  the  sky ; 
When  gibbering  imps  sit  down, 
To  feast  on  lord  or  clown, 
And  tear  the  shroud  away 
From  their  lithe  and  pallid  prey ; 
Then  clustering  close,  how  grim 
They  munch  each  withered  limb  ! 
Or  quarrel  for  dainty  rare, 
The  lip  of  lady  fair,  — 
The  tongue  of  high-born  dame, 
That  never  would  defame, 
And  was  of  scandal  free 
As  any  mute  could  be  ! 
Or  suck  the  tintless  cheek 
Of  maiden  mild  and  meek ; 


148  THE  WITCHES'    JOYS. 

And  when  in  revel  rout 
They  kick  peeled  skulls  about, 
And  shout  in  maddest  mirth,  — 
These  dull  toys  awed  the  earth ! 

O  then,  O  then,  O  then, 

We  hurry  forth  amain ; 
For  with  such  eldritch  cries, 
Begin  our  revelries  ! 

n. 

When  the  murderer's  blanched  corse 
Swings  with  a  sighing  hoarse 
From  gibbet  and  from  chain, 
As  the  bat  sucks  out  his  brain, 
And  the  owlet  pecks  his  eyes, 
And  the  wild  fox  gnaws  Ins  thighs ; 
While  the  raven  croaks  with  glee, 
Lord  of  the  dead  man's  tree ; 
And  rocked  on  that  green  skull, 
With  sated  look  and  dull, 
In  gloomy  pride  looks  o'er 
The  waste  and  wildered  moor, 
And  dreams  some  other  day 
Shall  bring  him  fresher  prey ; 


THE    WITCHES'    JOYS.  149 

When  over  bog  and  fen, 
To  lure  wayfaring  men, 
Malicious  spirits  trail 
A  ground  fire  thin  and  pale, 
Which  the  belated  wight 
Pursues  the  live-long  night, 
Till  in  the  treacherous  ground 
An  unmade  grave  is  found,  — 

O  then,  O  then,  O  then, 

We  hurry  forth  amain, 
Ha !  ha !  his  feeble  cries 
Begin  our  revelries. 

in. 

When  the  spirits  of  the  North 
Hurl  howling  tempests  forth ; 
When  seas  of  lightning  flare, 
And  thunders  choke  the  air ; 
When  the  ocean  starts  to  life, 
To  madness,  horror,  strife, 
And  the  goodly  bark  breaks  up, 
Like  ungirded  drinking  cup, 
And  each  stately  mast  is  split 
In  some  rude  thunder-fit ; 


150  THE    WITCHES'    JOYS. 

And,  like  feather  on  the  foam, 

Float  shattered  plank  and  boom  ; 

When,  midst  the  tempest's  roar, 

Pale  listeners  on  the  shore 

Hear  the  curse  and  shriek  of  men, 

As  they  sink  and  rise  again 

On  the  gurly  billow's  back, 

And  their  strong  broad  breast-bones  crack 

On  the  iron  -ribbed  coast, 

As  back  to  hell  they  're  tossed,  — 

O  then,  O  then,  O  then, 

We  hurry  forth  again ! 
For  amid  such  lusty  cries, 
Begin  our  revelries. 

IV. 

When  aged  parents  flee 
The  noble  wreck  to  see, 
And  mark  their  sons  roll  in 
Through  foam  and  thundering  din, 
All  mottled  black  and  blue,  — 
Their  very  lips  cut  through 
In  the  agony  of  death, 
While  drifting  on  their  path ; 


THE    WITCHES'    JOYS.  151 

When  gentle  maidens  stand 
Upon  the  wreck-rich  strand, 
And  every  laboring  wave 
That  doth  their  small  feet  lave, 
Gives  them  a  ghastly  lover 
To  wring  their  white  hands  over, 
And  tear  their  spray-wet  hair 
In  the  madness  of  despair ; 

O  then,  O  then,  O  then, 

We  hurry  home  amain ; 
For  their  heart-piercing  cries, 
Shame  our  wild  revelries  ! 


A  SABBATH  SUMMER  NOON. 


THE  calmness  of  this  noontide  horn-, 

The  shadow  of  this  wood, 
The  fragrance  of  each  wilding  flower, 

Are  marvellously  good ; 
O,  here  crazed  spirits  breathe  the  balm 

Of  nature's  solitude ! 

It  is  a  most  delicious  calm 
That  resteth  everywhere,  — 

The  holiness  of  soul-sung  psalm, 
Of  felt  but  voiceless  prayer ! 

With  hearts  too  full  to  speak  their  bliss, 
God's  creatures  silent  are. 

They  silent  are ;  but  not  the  less, 

In  this  most  tranquil  hour 
Of  deep  unbroken  dreaminess, 

They  own  that  Love  and  Power 
Which,  like  the  softest  sunshine,  rests 

On  every  leaf  and  flower. 


A      SABBATH     SUMMER     NOON.  1 53 

How  silent  are  the  song-filled  nests 

That  crowd  this  drowsy  tree,  — 
How  mute  is  eveiy  feathered  breast 

That  swelled  with  melody ! 
And  yet  bright  bead-like  eyes  declare 

This  hour  is  ecstasy. 

Heart  forth !  as  uncaged  bird  through  air, 

And  mingle  in  the  tide 
Of  blessed  things,  that,  lacking  care, 

Now  full  of  beauty  glide 
Around  thee,  in  their  angel  hues 

Of  joy  and  sinless  pride. 

Here,  on  this  green  bank  that  o'er-views 

The  far  retreating  glen, 
Beneath  the  spreading  beech-tree  muse, 

On  all  within  thy  ken ; 
For  lovelier  scene  shall  never  break 

On  thy  dimmed  sight  again, 

Slow  stealing  from  the  tangled  brake 

That  skirts  the  distant  hill, 
With  noiseless  hoof  two  bright  fawns  make 


154  A     SABBATH     SUMMER     NOON. 

For  yonder  lapsing  rill ; 
Meek  children  of  the  forest  gloom, 
Drink  011,  and  fear  no  ill ! 

And  buried  in  the  yellow  broom 

That  crowns  the  neighboring  height, 

Couches  a  loutish  shepherd  groom, 
"With  all  his  flocks  in  sight ; 

Which  dot  the  green  braes  gloriously, 
With  spots  of  living  light. 

It  is  a  sight  that  filleth  me 

With  meditative  joy, 
To  mark  these  dumb  things  curiously, 

Crowd  round  their  guardian  boy ; 
As  if  they  felt  this  Sabbath  hour 

Of  bliss  lacked  all- alloy. 

I  bend  me  towards  the  tiny  flower, 
That  underneath  this  tree 

Opens  its  little  breast  of  sweets 
In  meekest  modesty, 

And  breathes  the  eloquence  of  love 
In  muteness,  Lord !  to  thee. 


A      SABBATH      SUMMER      NOON.  156 

There  is  no  breath  of  wind  to  move 
The  flag -like  leaves,  that  spread 

Their  grateful  shadow  far  above 
This  turf-supported  head ; 

All  sounds  are  gone,  —  all  murmurings 
With  living  nature  wed. 

The  babbling  of  the  clear  well-springs, 

The  whisperings  of  the  trees, 
And  all  the  cheerful  jargonings 

Of  feathered  hearts  at  ease ; 
That  whilome  filled  the  vocal  wood, 

Have  hushed  their  minstrelsies. 

The  silentness  of  night  doth  brood 

O'er  this  bright  summer  noon ; 
And  nature,  in  her  holiest  mood, 

Doth  all  things  well  attune 
To  joy,  in  the  religious  dreams 

Of  green  and  leafy  June. 

Far  down  the  glen  in  distance  gleams 

The  hamlet's  tapering  spire, 
And,  glittering  in  meridial  beams, 


156  A      SABBATH      SUMMER     NOON. 

Its  vane  is  tongued  with  fire ; 
And  hark  how  sweet  its  silvery  bell,  — 
And  hark  the  rustic  choir ! 

The  holy  sounds  float  up  the  dell 

To  fill  my  ravished  ear, 
And  now  the  glorious  anthems  swell 

Of  worshippers  sincere,  — 
Of  hearts  bowed  in  the  dust,  that  shed 

Faith's  penitential  tear. 

Dear  Lord !  thy  shadow  is  forth  spread 
On  all  mine  eye  can  see ; 

And  filled  at  the  pure  fountain-head 
Of  deepest  piety, 

My  heart  loves  all  created  things, 
And  travels  home  to  thee. 

Around  me  while  the  sunshine  flings 

A  flood  of  mocky  gold, 
My  chastened  spirit  once  more  sings, 

As  it  was  wont  of  old, 
That  lay  of  gratitude  which  burst 

From  young  heart  uncontrolled. 


A      SABBATH      SUMMER      NOON.  157 

When  in  the  midst  of  nature  nursed, 

Sweet  influences  fell 
On  chidly  hearts  that  were  athirst, 

Like  soft  dews  in  the  bell 
Of  tender  flowers,  that  bowed  their  heads, 

And  breathed  a  fresher  smell. 

So,  even  now  this  hour  hath  sped 

In  rapturous  thought  o'er  me. 
Feeling  myself  with  nature  wed,  — 

A  holy  mystery,  — 
A  part  of  earth,  a  part  of  heaven, 

A  part,  great  God !  of  Thee. 

Fast  fade  the  cares  of  life's  dull  sweven 

They  perish  as  the -weed, 
While  unto  me  the  power  is  given, 

A  moral  deep  to  read 
In  every  silent  throe  of  mind 

External  beauties  breed. 


A    MONODY. 


'*  HOUR  after  hour 
Day  after  day, 
Some  gentle  flower 
Or  leaf  gives  way 
Within  the  bower 

Of  human  hearts: 
Tear  after  tear 

In  anguish  starts, 
For,  green  or  sere, 

Some  loved  leaf  parts 
From  the  arbere 

Of  human  hearts ;  — 
The  keen  winds  blow; 
Rain,  hail,  and  snow 
Fall  everywhere ! 
And  one  by  one, 
As  life's  sands  run, 

These  loved  things  fare, 
Till  plundered  hearts  at  last  are  won 
To  woo  despair. 


A     MONODY. 
II. 

Why  linger  on, 
•  Fate's  mockery  here, 
When  each  is  gone, 

Heart-loved,  heart-dear  ? 
Stone  spells  to  stone 

Its  weary  tale, 
How  graves  were  filled, 

How  cheeks  waxed  pale, 
How  hearts  were  chilled 

With  biting  gale, 
And  life's  strings  thrilled 

With  sorrow's  wail. 
Flower  follows  flower 
In  the  heart's  bower, 

To  fleet  away ;  - 
While  leaf  on  leaf, 
Sharp  grief  on  grief,  — 

Night  chasing  day, 
Tell  as  they  fall,  all  joy  is  brief, 

Life  but  decay. 

in. 

The  sea-weed  thrown 
By  wave  or  wind, 


1  60  A     M  O  N  O  D  Y  . 

On  strand  unknown, 

Lone  grave  to  find ; 
Methiiiks  may  own, 

Of  kindred  more 
Than  I  dare  claim 

On  life' s  bleak  shore. 
Name  follows  name 

For  evermore, 
As  swift  waves  shame 

Slow  waves  before ;  - 
For  keen  winds  blow ; 
Rain,  hail,  and  snow 

Fall  everywhere, 
Till  life's  sad  tree, 
In  mockery, 

Skeletoned  bare 
Of  every  leaf,  is  left  to  be 

Mate  of  despair. 

IV. 

The  world  is  wide, 
Is  rich  and  fair, 
Its  tilings  of  pride 
Flaunt  everywhere ; 


A      MONODY.  161 

But  can  it  hide 

Its  liollowness  ? 
One  mighty  shell 

Of  bitterness, 
One  grand  farewell 

To  happiness, 
One  solemn  knell 

To  love's  caress, 
It  seems  to  me. 
The  shipless  sea 

Hath  bravery  more 
Than  this  waste  scene, 
Where  what  hath  been 

Beloved  of  yore, 
In  the  heart's  bower  so  fresh  and  green, 

Fades  evermore ! 

v. 
From  all  its  kind, 

Tin's  wasted  heart  — 
Tin's  moody  mind 

Now  drifts  apart ! 
It  longs  to  find 

The  tideless  shore, 
12 


1  62  A      M  O  N  O  D  Y  . 

Where  rests  the  wreck 

Of  Heretofore, — 
The  glorious  wreck 

Of  mental  ore ; 
The  great  heartbreak 

Of  loves  110  more. 
I  drift  alone, 
For  all  are  gone 

Dearest  to  me; 
And  hail  the  wave 
That  to  the  grave 

On  hurrieth  me  : 
Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  then,  thy  wave, 

Eternity ! 


THEY  COME!  THE  MERRY  SUMMER  MONTHS. 


THEY  come !   the  merry  summer  mouths  of  Beauty, 

Song,  and  Flowers ; 
They  come ;  the  gladsome  months  that  bring  thick 

leafiness  to  bowers. 
Up,  up,  my  heart !  and  walk  abroad,  fling  cark  and 

care  aside, 
Seek  silent  hills,  or  rest  thyself  where  peaceful  waters 

glide ; 

Or,  underneath  the  shadow  vast  of  patriarchal  tree, 
Scan  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless   sky  in  rapt 

tranquillity. 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  velvet  touch  is  grateful  to  the  hand, 
And,  like  the  kiss  of  maiden  love,  the  breeze  is  sweet 

and  bland ; 

The  daisy  and  the  buttercup  are  nodding  courteously, 
It  stirs  their  blood,  with  kindest  love,  to  bless  and 

welcome  thee : 
And  mark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks,  —  they 

now  are  silvery  gray,  — 
That  blissful  breeze  is  wantoning,  and  whispering 

'Be  gay!' 


164 


There  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along  the  ocean  of  yon 
sky, 

But  hath  its  own  winged  mariners  to  give  it  melody : 

Thou  see'st  their  glittering  fans  outspread  all  gleam- 
ing like  red  gold, 

And  hark!  with  shrill  pipe  musical,  their  merry 
course  they  hold. 

God  bless  them  all,  these  little  ones,  who  far  above 
this  earth, 

Can  make  a  scoff  of  its  mean  joys,  and  vent  a  nobler 
mirth. 

But  soft !  mine  ear  upcaught  a  sound,  from  yonder 

wood  it  came ! 
The  spirit  of  the  dim  green  glade  did  breathe  his 

own  glad  name ;  — 
Yes,  it  is  he !  the  hermit  bird,  that  apart  from  all  his 

kind, 
Slow  spells  his  beads  monotonous  to  the  soft  western 

wind; 
Cuckoo!    Cuckoo!   he  sings  again,  —  his  notes   are 

void  of  art, 
But  simplest  strains  do  soonest  sound  the  deep  founts 

of  the  heart ! 


THE      MERRY      SUMMER     MONTHS.          165 

Good  Lord !  it  is  a  gracious  boon  for  thought-crazed 

wight  like  me, 
To  smell  again  these  summer  flowers  beneath  this 

summer  tree ! 
To  suck  once  more  in  every  breath  their  little  souls 

away, 
And  feed  my  fancy  with  fond  dreams  of  youth's  bright 

summer  day, 
When,  rushing  forth  like  untamed  colt,  the  reckless 

truant  boy, 
"Wandered  through  green  woods  all  day  long,  a  mighty 

heart  of  joy ! 

I  'm  sadder  now,  I  have  had  cause ;    but  O !    I  'm 

proud  to  think 
That  each  pure  joy-fount  loved  .of  yore,  I  yet  delight 

to  drink ;  — 
Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,  valley,  stream,  the  calm 

unclouded  sky, 
Still  mingle  music  with  my  dreams,  as  in  the  days 

gone  by. 
When  summer's  loveliness  and  light  fall  round  me 

dark  and  cold, 
I  '11  bear  indeed  life's  heaviest  curse,  —  a  heart  that 

hath  waxed  old ! 


CHANGE    SWEEPETH    OVER   ALL. 

CHANGE  sweepeth  over  all ! 

In  showers  leaves  fall 
From  the  tall  forest  tree  ; 

On  to  the  sea 
Majestic  rivers  roll. 

It  is  their  goal. 
Each  speeds  to  perish  in  man's  simple  seeming,  — 

Each  disappears  : 

One  common  end  o'ertakes  life's  idle  dreaming, 
Dust,  darkness,  tears ! 

Day  hurries  to  its  close : 

The  sun  that  rose 
A  miracle  of  light, 

Yieldeth  to  night ; 
The  skirt  of  one  vast  pall 

O'ershadows  all, 
Yon  firmamental  cresset  lights  forth  shining, 

Heaven's  highest  bom ! 
Droop  on  their  thrones,  and,  like  pale  spirits  pining, 

Vanish  with  mom. 


CHANGE      S  W  E  E  F  E  T  H      OVER      ALL.         1 67 

O'er  cities  of  old  days, 

Dumb  creatures  graze ; 
Palace  and  pyramid 

In  dust  are  hid ; 
Yea,  the  sky-searching  tower 

Stands  but  its  hour. 
Oceans  their  wide -stretched  beds  are  ever  shifting, 

Sea  turns  to  shore, 

And  stars  and  systems  through  dread  space  are  drifting, 
To  shine  no  more. 

Names  perish  that  erst  smote 

Nations  remote, 
With  panic,  fear,  or  wrong ; 

Heroic  song 
Grapples  with  time  in  vain ; 

On  to  the  main 
Of  dim  forgetfulness  for  ever  rolling, 

Earth's  bubbles  burst ; 
Time  o'er  the  wreck  of  ages  sternly  tolling 

The  last  accursed. 

The  world  is  waxing  old. 
Heaven  dull  and  cold ; 


168         CHANGE     SWEEPETH      OVER      ALL. 

Nought  lacketh  here  a  close 

Save  human  woes. 
Yet  they  too  have  an  end,  — 

Death  is  man's  friend: 
Doomed  for  a  while,  his  heart  must  go  on  breaking 

Day  after  day, 

But  light,  love,  life,  —  all, — all  at  last  forsaking, 
Clay  claspeth  clay ! 


SONGS, 


SONGS. 


O,   WAE    BE   TO   THE   ORDERS. 

O  WAE  be  to  the  orders  that  marched  my  luve  awa', 
And  wae  be  to  the  cruel  cause  that  gars  my  tears 

doun  fa', 

O  wae  be  to  the  bluidy  wars  in  Hie  Germanic, 
For  they  hae  ta'en  my  luve,  and  left  a  broken  heart 

to  me. 

The  drums  beat  in  the  mornin'  afore  the  scriech  o'  day, 
And  the  wee  wee  fifes  piped  loud  and  shrill,  while  yet 

the  morn  was  gray ; 
The  bonnie  flags  were  a'  unfurled,  a  gallant  sight  to 

see, 
But  waes  me  for  my  sodger  lad  that  marched   to 

Germanie. 

O,  lang,  lang  is  the  travel  to  the  bonnie  Pier  o'  Leith, 
O  dreich  it  is  to  gang  on  foot  wi'  the  snaw- drift  in 
the  teeth ! 


l72  O,     WAE      BE      TO     THE     ORDERS. 

And  O,  the  cauld  wind  froze  the  tear  that  gathered  in 

my  e'e, 
When  I  gade  there  to  see  my  luve  embark  for  Ger- 


J  looked  ower  the  braid  blue  sea,  sae  long  as  could  be 
seen 

Ae  wee  bit  sail  upon  the  ship  that  my  sodger  lad  was  in ; 

But  the  wind  was  blawin'  sair  and  snell,  and  the  ship 
sailed  speedilie, 

And  the  waves  and  cruel  wars  hae  twinned  my  win- 
some luve  frae  me. 

T  never  think  o'  dancin,  and  I  downa  try  to  sing, 
But  a'  the  day  I  spier  what  news  kind  neibour  bodies 

bring; 

I  sometimes  knit  a  stocking,  if  knittin'  it  may  be, 
Syne  for  every  loop  that  I  cast  on,  I  am  sure  to  let 

doun  three. 

My  father  says  I  'm  in  a  pet,  my  mither  jeers  at  me, 
And  bans  me  for  a  dautit  wean,  in  dorts  for  aye  to  be ; 
But  little  weet  they  o'  the  cause  that  drumles  sae  my  e'e : 
O  they  hae  nae  winsome  luve  like  mine  in  the  wars 
o'  Germanic! 


WEARIE'S    WELL. 


IN  a  saft  simmer  gloamin', 

In  yon  dowie  dell, 
It  was  there  we  twa  first  met 

By  Wearie's  cauld  well. 
We  sat  on  the  brume  bank 

And  looked  in  the  bum, 
But  sidelang  we  looked  on 

Ilk  ither  in  turn. 

The  corn-craik  was  chinning 

His  sad  eerie  cry, 
And  the  wee  stars  were  dreaming 

Their  path  through  the  sky ; 
The  burn  babbled  freely 

Its  love  to  ilk  flower, 
But  we  heard  and  we  saw  nought 

In  that  blessed  hour. 

We  heard  and  we  saw  nought 
Above  or  around; 


174  WEARIE'S    WELL. 

We  felt  that  our  love  lived, 
And  loathed  idle  sound. 

I  gazed  on  your  sweet  face 
Till  tears  filled  my  e'e, 

Ana  they  drapt  on  your  wee  loof, 
A  warld's  wealth  to  me. 

Now  the  winter's  snaw  's  fa'ing 

On  bare  holm  and  lea ; 
And  the  cauld  wind  is  strippiii' 

Ilk  leaf  aff  the  tree. 
But  the  snaw  fa's  not  faster, 

Nor  leaf  disna  part 
Sae  suiie  fiue  the  bough,  as 

Faith  fades  in  your  heart. 

Ye  Ve  waled  out  anither 

Your  bridegroom  to  be  ; 
But  can  his  heart  luve  sae 

As  mine  luvit  thee  ? 
Ye  '11  get  biggings  and  mailins, 

And  monie  braw  claes  ; 
But  they  a'  winna  buy  back 

The  peace  o'  past  days. 


W  E  A  n  I  E  '  S      WELL.  175 

Fare  we  el,  and  for  ever, 

My  first  luve  and  last, 
May  thy  joys  be  to  come,  — 

Mine  live  in  the  past 
In  sorrow  and  sadness, 

This  hour  fa's  on  me ; 
But  light,  as  thy  luve,  may 

It  fleet  over  thee ! 


SONG  OF  THE  DANISH    SEA-KING. 

OUR  bark  is  on  the  waters  deep,  our  bright  blade  's 

in  our  hand, 
Our  birthright    is   the  ocean  vast, — we  scorn  the 

girdled  land ; 
And  the  hollow  wind  is  our  music  brave,  and  none 

can  bolder  be 
Thau  the  hoarse -tongued  tempest  raving  o'er  a  proud 

and  swelling  sea ! 

Our  bark  is  dancing  on  the  waves,  its  tall  masts  quiv- 
ering bend 

.Before  the  gale,  which  hails  us  now  with  the  hollo  of 
a  friend ; 

And  its  prow  is  sheering  merrily  the  upcurled  billow's 
foam, 

While  our  hearts,  with  throbbing  gladness,  cheer  old 
Ocean  as  our  home  ! 

Our  eagle-wings  of  might  we  stretch  before  the  gal- 
lant wind, 

And  we  leave  the  tame  and  sluggish  earth  a  dim  mean 
speck  behind ; 


SONG     OF     THE     DANISH     SEA-KING.      177 

We  shoot  into  the  matracked  deep,  as  earth-freed 

spirits  soar, 
Like  stars  of  fire  through  boundless  space,  —  through 

realms  without  a  shore  ! 

Lords  of  this  wide-spread  wilderness  of  waters,  we 

bound  free, 

The  haughty  elements  alone  dispute  our  sovereignty ; 
No  landmark  doth  our  freedom  let,  for  no  law  of  man 

can  mete 
The  sky  which  arches  o'er  our  head,  —  the  waves 

which  kiss  our  feet ! 

The  warrior  of  the  land  may  back  the  wild  horse,  in 
his  pride ; 

But  a  fiercer  steed  we  dauntless  breast,  —  the  un- 
tamed ocean  tide ; 

And  a  nobler  tilt  our  bark  careers,  as  it  quells  the 
saucy  wave, 

While  the  Herald  storm  peals  o'er  the  deep  the 
glories  of  the  brave. 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  the  wind  is  up,  —  it  bio weth  fresh 

and  free, 

And  every  cord  instinct  with  life,  pipes  loud  its  fear- 
less glee ; 

13 


178     SONG     OF     THE     DANISH     SEA-KING. 

Big  swell  the  bosomed  sails  with  joy,  and  they  madly 

kiss  the  spray, 
As  proudly,  through  the  foaming  surge,  the  Sea-King 

bears  away ! 


THE   CAVALIER'S  SONG. 

A  STEED  !  a  steed  of  matchlesse  speed, 

A  sword  of  metal  keene ! 
All  else  to  noble  heartes  is  drosse, 

All  else  on  earth  is  meane. 
The  neighyinge  of  the  war-horse  prowde, 

The  rowlinge  of  the  dram, 
The  clangor  of  the  trumpet  lowde, 

Be  souncles  from  heaven  that  come ; 
And  O !    the  thundering  presse  of  knightes 

Whenas  their  war  cryes  swell, 
May  tole  from  heaven  an  angel  bright, 

And  rouse  a  fiend  from  hell. 

Then  mounte !  then  mounte,  brave  gallants,  all, 

And  don  your  helmes  amaine : 
Deathe's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honor,  call 

Us  to  the  field  againe. 
No  shrewish  teares  shall  fill  our  eye 

When  the  sword-hilt 's  in  our  hand,  — 
Heart  whole  we  '11  part,  and  no  whit  sighe 

For  the  fayrest  of  the  land ; 


180  THE    CAVALIER'S    SONG. 

Let  piping  swaine,  and  craven  wight, 
Thus  weepe  and  puling  crye, 

Our  business  is  like  men  to  fight, 
And  hero-like  to  die  ! 


THE  MERRY  GALLANT. 


THE  Merry  Gallant  girds  his  sword, 

Arid  dons  his  helm  in  mickle  glee ; 
He  leaves  behind  his  lady  love 
For  tented  fields  and  deeds  which  prove 
Stout  hardiment  and  constancy. 

When  round  him  rings  the  din  of  arms,  — 

The  notes  of  high-born  chivalry, 
He  thinks  not  of  his  bird  in  bower, 
And  scorns  to  own  Love's  tyrant  power 
Amid  the  combats  of  the  Free. 

Yet  in  the  midnight  watch,  I  trow, 

When  cresset  lights  all  feebly  burn, 
Will  hermit  Fancy  sometimes  roam 
With  eager  travel  back  to  home, 
Where  smiles  and  tears  await  —  return. 


182  THE      MERRY      GALLANT. 

'  Away !  away ! '  he  boldly  sings, 

'  Be  thrown  those  thoughts  which  cling  to  me ; 
That  mournful  look  and  glistering  eye,  — 
That  quivering  lip  and  broken,  sigh ;  — 
Why  nil  each  shrine  of  memory  ? 

'  O,  that  to-morrow's  dawn  would  rise 
To  light  me  on  my  path  of  glory, 
Where  I  may  pluck  from  niggard  fame 
Her  bravest  laurels,  —  and  the  name 
That  long  shah1  live  in  minstrel  story  ! 

*  Then,  when  my  thirst  for  fame  is  dead, 
Soft  love  may  claim  his  wonted  due ; 
But  now  when  levelled  lances  gleam, 
And  chargers  snort,  and  banners  stream, 
To  lady's  love  a  long  adieu !' 


THE  KNIGHT'S    SONG. 


ENDEARING  !  endearing ! 

Why  so  endearing 
Are  those  dark  lustrous  eyes, 

Through  their  silk  fringes  peering  ? 
They  love  rne !  they  love  me ; 

Deeply,  sincerely; 
And  more  than  aught  else  on  earth, 

I  love  them  dearly. 

Endearing !  endearing ! 

Why  so  endearing 
Glows  the  glad  sunny  smile 

On  thy  soft  cheek  appearing  ? 
It  brightens  !  it  brightens  ! 

As  I  am  nearing ; 
And  't  is  thus  that  thy  fond  smile 

Is  ever  endearing. 

Endearing!  endearing! 
Why  so  endearing 


181  THE    KNIGHT'S    SONG. 

Is  that  lute  breathing  voice 

Which  my  rapt  soul  is  hearing  ? 

'T  is  singing,  't  is  singing 
Thy  deep  love  for  me, 

And  my  faithful  heart  echoes 
Devotion  to  thee. 

Endearing !  endearing ! 

Why  so  endearing, 
At  each  Passage  of  Arms 

Is  the  herald's  bold  cheering  ? 
'  T  is  then  thou  art  kneeling 

With  pure  hands  to  heaven, 
And  each  prayer  of  thy  heart 

For  my  good  lance  is  given. 

Endearing!  endearing! 

Why  so  endearing 
Is  the  fillet  of  silk 

That  my  right  arm  is  wearing  ? 
Once  it  veiled  the  bright  bosom 

That  beats  but  for  me  ; 
Now  it  circles  the  arm  that 

Wins  glory  for  thee  ! 


THE  TROOPER'S  DITTY. 


BOOT,  boot  into  the  stirrup,  lads, 

And  hand  once  more  on  rein.; 
Up,  up  into  the  saddle,  lads, 

A-field  we  ride  again : 
One  cheer,  one  cheer  for  dame  or  dear, 

No  leisure  now  to  sigh, 
God  bless  them  all,  —  we  have  their  prayers, 

And  they  our  hearts,  — '  Good-bye ' ' 
Off,  off  we  ride,  in  reckless  pride, 

As  gallant  troopers  may, 
Who  have  old  scores  to  settle,  and 

Long  slashing  swords  to  pay. 

The  trumpet  calls,  — '  trot  out,  trot  out/  — 

We  cheer  the  stirring  sound ; 
Swords  forth,  my  lads,  —  through  smoke  and 
dust 

We  thunder  o'er  the  ground. 
Tramp,  tramp,  we  go  through  sulphury  clouds, 

That  blind  us  while  we  sing,  — 


186  THE    TROOPER'S    DITTY. 

Woe  worth  the  knave  who  follows  not 

The  banner  of  the  King ; 
But  luck  befall  each  trooper  tall, 

That  cleaves  to  saddle-tree, 
Whose  long  sword  carves  on  rebel  sconce, 

The  rights  of  Majesty. 

Spur  on,  my  lads ;  the  trumpet  sounds 

Its  last  and  stern  command,  — 
'  A  charge !  a  charge  ! '  —  an  ocean  burst 

Upon  a  stormy  strand. 
Ha !  ha !  how  thickly  on  our  casques 

Their  pop -guns  rattle  shot ; 
Spur  on,  my  lads,  we'll  give  it  them 

As  sharply  as  we  Ve  got. 
Now  for  it :  — now,  bend  to  the  work,  — 

Then*  lines  begin  to  shake  ; 
Now,  through  and  through  them, — bloody  lanes 

Our  flashing  sabres  make ! 

*  Cut  one, — cut  two, — first  point,'  and  then 

We  '11  parry  as  we  may ; 
On,  on  the  knaves,  and  give  them  steel 

In  bellyfuls  to-day. 


THE    TROOPER'S   DITTY.  187 

Hurrah !  hurrah !  for  Church  and  State, 

For  Country  and  for  Crown, 
We  slash  away,  and  right  and  left 

Hew  rogues  and  rebels  down. 
Another  cheer !  the  field  is  clear, 

The  day  is  all  our  own ; 
Done  like  our  sires,  —  done  like  the  swords 

God  gives  to  guard  the  Throne  ! 


HE   IS   GONE!    HE   IS   GONE! 

HE  is  gone  !  he  is  gone ! 

Like  the  leaf  from  the  tree; 
Or  the  down  that  is  blown 

By  the  wind  o'er  the  lea. 
He  is  fled,  the  light-hearted ! 
Yet  a  tear  must  have  started 
To  his  eye,  when  he  parted 

From  love-stricken  me ! 

He  is  fled  :  he  is  fled ! 

Like  a  gallant  so  free, 
Plumed  cap  on  his  head, 

And  sharp  sword  by  his  knee ; 
While  his  gay  feathers  fluttered, 
Surely  something  he  muttered, 
He  at  least  must  have  uttered 

A  farewell  to  me ! 

He  's  away !  he  's  away 
To  far  lands  o'er  the  sea,  — 


HE    is    GONE!    HE    is    GONE!       189 

And.  long  is  the  day 

Ere  home  he  can  be ; 
But  where'er  his  steed  prances, 
Amid  thronging  lances, 
Sure  he  '11  think  of  the  glances 

That  love  stole  from  me ! 

He  is  gone !  he  is  gone ! 

Like  the  leaf  from  the  tree  ; 
But  his  heart  is  of  stone 

If  it  ne'er  dream  of  me  ! 
For  I  dream  of  him  ever : 
His  buif-coat  and  beaver, 
And  long  sword,  O,  never 

Are  absent  from  me ! 


THE  FORESTER'S  CAROL. 


LUSTY  Hearts  !  to  the  wood,  to  the  merry  green  wood, 
"While  the  dew  with  strung  pearls  loads  each  blade, 

And  the  first  blush  of  dawn  brightly  streams  o'er  the 

lawn, 
Like  the  smile  of  a  rosy-cheeked  maid. 

Our  horns  with  wild  music  ring  glad  through  each 

shaw, 

And  our  broad  arrows  rattle  amain ; 
For  the  stout  bows  we  draw,  to  the  green  woods  give 

law, 
And  the  Might  is  the  Eight  once  again ! 

Mark  yon  herds,  as  they  brattle  and  brush  down  the 
glade ; 

Pick  the  fat,  let  the  lean  rascals  go, 
Under  favor  't  is  meet  that  we  tall  men  should  eat,  — 

Nock  a  shaft  and  strike  down  that  proud  doe  ! 


THE    FORESTER'S    CAROL.  191 

Well  delivered,  parfay !  convulsive  she  leaps,  — 
One  bound  more,  —  then  she  drops  on  her  side ; 

Our  steel  hath  bit  smart  the  life -strings  of  her  heart, 
And  cold  now  lies  the  green  forest's  pride. 

Heave  her  up,  and  away !  —  should  any  base  churl 
Dare  to  ask  why  we  range  in  this  wood, 

There  's  a  keen  arrow  yare,  in  each  broad  belt  to 

spare, 
That  will  answer  the  knave  in  his  blood  ! 

Then  forward,  my  Hearts !   like  the  bold  reckless 
breeze 

Our  life  shall  whirl  on  in  mad  glee ; 
The  long  bows  we  bend,  to  the  world's  latter  end, 

Shall  be  borne  by  the  hands  of  the  Free ! 


MAY  MORN  SONG. 


THE  grass  is  wet  with  shining  dews, 

Then:  silver  bells  hang  on  each  tree, 
While  opening  flower  and  bursting  bud 

Breathe  incense  forth  unceasingly ; 
'.Hie  mavis  pipes  in  greenwood  shaw, 

The  throstle  glads  the  spreading  thorn, 
And  cheerily  the  blythesome  lark 
Salutes  the  rosy  face^of  morn. 
'T  is  early  prime ; 

And  hark !  hark !  hark ! 
His  merry  chime 

Chirrups  the  lark  : 
Chirrup !  chirrup !  he  heralds  in 
The  jolly  sun  with  matin  hymn. 

Come,  come,  my  love !  sind  May-dews  shake 
In  pailfuls  from  each  drooping  bough ; 

They  '11  give  fresh  lustre  to  the  bloom, 
That  breaks  upon  thy  young  cheek  now. 


MAY      MORN      SONG.  193 

O'er  hill  and  dale,  o'er  waste  and  wood 

Aurora's  smiles  are  streaming  free ; 
With  earth  it  seems  brave  holyday, 
In  heaven  it  looks  high  jubilee. 
And  it  is  right, 

For  mark,  love,  mark ! 
How  bathed  in  light 
Chirrups  the  lark : 
Chirrup  !  chirrup  !  he  upward  flies, 
Like  holy  thoughts  to  cloudless  skies. 

They  lack  all  heart,  who  cannot  feel 

The  voice  of  heaven  within  them  thrill, 
In  summer  morn,  when  mounting  high 

This  merry  minstrel  sings  his  fill. 
Now  let  us  seek  yon  bosky  dell 

Where  brightest  wild-flowers  choose  to  be, 
And  where  its  clear  stream  murmurs  on, 
Meet  type  of  our  love's  purity ; 
No  witness  there, 

And  o'er  us  hark ! 
High  in  the  air 

Chirrups  the  lark : 
Chirrup  !  chirrup  !  away  soars  he, 

Bearing  to  heaven  my  vows  to  thee ! 
14 


THE  BLOOM  HATH  FLED  THY  CHEEK,  MARY. 


THE  bloom  liatli  fled  thy  cheek,  Mary, 
As  spring's  rath  blossoms  die, 

And  sadness  hath  o'ershadowed  now 
Thy  once  bright  eye ; 

But,  look  on  me,  the  prints  of  grief 
Still  deeper  he. 
Farewell ! 

Thy  lips  are  pale  and  mute,  Mary, 

Thy  step  is  sad  and  slow, 
The  morn  of  gladness  hath  gone  by 

Thou  erst  did  know ; 
I,  too,  am  changed  like  thee,  and  weep 

For  very  woe. 

Farewell ! 

It  seems  as  't  were  but  yesterday 
We  were  the  happiest  twain, 


THE   BLOOM  HATH  FLED.         195 

When  murmured  sighs  and  joyous  tears, 

Dropping  like  rain, 
Discoursed  my  love,  and  told  how  loved 

I  was  again. 

Farewell ! 

'T  was  not  in  cold  and  measured  phrase 

We  gave  our  passion  name ; 
Scorning  such  tedious  eloquence, 

Our  heart's  fond  flame 
And  long  imprisoned  feelings  fast 

In  deep  sobs  came. 
Farewell ! 

Would  that  our  love  had  been  the  love 

That  merest  worldlings  know, 
When  passion's  draught  to  our  doomed  lips 

Turns  utter  woe, 
And  our  poor  dream  of  happiness 

Vanishes  so ! 

Farewell ! 

But  in  the  wreck  of  all  our  hopes, 
There  's  yet  some  touch  of  bliss, 


196  THE      BLOOM     HATH      FLED. 

Since  fate  robs  not  our  wretchedness 

Of  this  last  kiss : 
Despair,  and  love,  and  madness,  meet 

In  this,  in  this. 
Farewell ! 


IN  THE  QUIET  AND  SOLEMN  NIGHT. 


IN  the  quiet  and  solemn  night, 
When  the  moon  is  silvery  bright, 
Then  the  screech-owl's  eerie  cry 
Mocks  the  beauties  of  the  sky : 

Tu  whit,  tii  whoo, 

Its  wild  halloo 
Doth  read  a  drowsy  homily. 

From  yon  old  castle's  chimneys  tall, 
The  bat  on  leathern  sail  doth  fall 
In  wanton-wise  to  skim  the  earth, 
And  flout  the  mouse  that  gave  it  birth. 

Tu  whit,  tu  whoo, 

That  wild  halloo 
Hath  marred  the  little  monster's  mirth. 

Fond  lovers  seek  the  dewy  vale, 

That  swimmeth  in  the  moonshine  pale ; 


198  NIGHT. 

But  maids !  beware,  when  in  your  ear 
The  screech-owl  screams  so  loud  and  clear : 

Tu  whit,  tu  whoo, 

Its  wild  halloo 
Doth  speak  of  danger  lurking  near. 

It  bids  beware  of  murmured  sigh, 
Of  air-spun  oath  and  wistful  eye ; 
Of  star  that  winks  to  conscious  flower 
Through  the  roof  of  leaf-clad  bower : 

Tu  whit,  tu  whoo, 

That  wild  halloo 
Bids  startled  virtue  own  its  power ! 


THE  VOICE  OF  LOVE. 


WHEN  shadows  o'er  the  landscape  creep, 
And  twinkling  stars  pale  vigils  keep  ; 
When  flower-cups  all  with  dewdrops  gleam, 
And  moonshine  floweth  like  a  stream ; 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  hearts  which  love  no  longer  dream,  — 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  the  voice  of  love  is  a  spell  of  power ! 

When  shamefaced  moonbeams  kiss  the  lake, 
And  amorous  leaves  sweet  music  wake ; 
When  slumber  steals  o'er  every  eye, 
And  Dian's  self  shines  drowsily ; 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  hearts  which  love  with  rapture  sigh,  — 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  the  voice  of  love  is  a  spell  of  power ! 

When  surly  mastiffs  stint  their  howl, 
And  swathed  in  moonshine  nods  the  owl ; 


THE      VOICE      OF     LOVE. 

When  cottage-hearths  are  glimmering  low, 
And  warder  cocks  forget  to  crow; 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  hearts  feel  passion's  overflow,  — 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  the  voice  of  love  is  a  spell  of  power ! 

When  stilly  night  seems  earth's  vast  grave, 
Nor  murmur  comes  from  wood  or  wave ; 
When  land  and  sea,  in  wedlock  bound 
By  silence,  sleep  in  bliss  profound ; 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  hearts  like  living  well-springs  sound,  — 

Then  is  the  hour 
That  the  voice  of  love  is  a  spell  of  power ! 


AWAY!  AWAY!    O,   DO   NOT   SAY. 


AWAY  !  away !  O,  do  not  say 

He  can  prove  false  to  me : 
Let  me  believe  but  this  brief  day 

In  his  fidelity ; 

Tell  me,  that  rivers  backward  flow, 
That  unsunned  snows  like  fire-brands  glow, 

I  may  believe  that  lay, 
But  never  can  believe  that  he 

Is  false  and  fled  away. 

Ill  acted  part !  ill  acted  part ! 

I  knew  Ins  noble  mind, 
He  could  not  break  a  trusting  heart, 

Nor  leave,  his  love  behind ; 
Tell  me  yon  sun  will  cease  to  rise, 
Or  stars  at  night  to  gem  the  skies, 

I  may  believe  such  lay ; 
But  never  can  believe  that  he 

Is  false  and  fled  away. 


202        AWAY!    AWAY!      o,    DO    NOT  SAY. 

Can  it  be  so  ?     O,  surely  no ! 

Must  I  perforce  believe 
That  he  I  loved  and  trusted  so, 

Vowed  only  to  deceive  ? 
Heap  coals  of  fire  on  this  lone  head, 
Or  in  pure  pity  strike  me  dead,  — 

'T  were  kindness,  on  the  day 
That  tells  me  one  I  loved  so  well, 

Is  false,  —  is  fled  away ! 


O,  AGONY!   KEEN  AGONY. 


O,  AGONY  !  keen  agony, 

For  trusting  heart,  to  find 

That  vows  believed,  were  vows  conceived 

As  light  as  summer  wind. 

O,  agony !  fierce  agony, 

For  loving  heart  to  brook, 

In  one  brief  hour  the  withering  power 

Of  unimpassioned  look. 

O,  agony !  deep  agony," 
For  heart  that 's  proud  and  high, 
To  learn  of  fate  how  desolate 
It  may  be  ere  it  die. 

O,  agony !  sharp  agony, 

To  find  how  loth  to  part 

With  the  fickleness  and  faithlessness 

That  break  a  trusting  heat ! 


THE   SERENADE. 

WAKE,  lady,  wake ! 

Dear  heart,  awake 

From  slumbers  light ; 
For  'neath  thy  bower,  at  this  still  hour, 

In  harness  bright, 
Lingers  thine  own  true  paramour, 

And  chosen  knight.! 

Wake,  lady,  wake ! 

Wake,  lady,  wake ! 

For  thy  loved  sake, 

Each  trembling  star 
Smiles  from  on  high  with  its  clear  eye, 

While  nobler  far 
You  silvery  shield  lights  earth  and  sky ; 

How  good  they  are ! 

Wake,  lady,  wake ! 

Rise,  lady,  rise ! 
Not  star-filled  skies 
I  worship  now, 
A  fairer  shrine  I  trust  is  mine 
For  loyal  vow : 


THE      SERENADE.  205 

O  that  the  living  stars  would  shine . 
That  light  thy  brow ! 
Rise,  lady,  rise ! 

Rise,  lady,  rise 

Ere  war's  rude  cries 

Fright  land  and  sea ! 
To-morrow's  light  sees  mail-sheathed  knight, 

Even  hapless  me, 
Careering  through  the  bloody  fight 

Afar  from  thee ! 

Rise,  lady,  rise ! 

Mute,  lady,  mute  ? 

I  have  no  lute, 

Nor  rebeck  small  • 
To  soothe  thine  ear  with  lay  sincere, 

Or  madrigal ; 
With  helm  on  head  and  hand  on  spear, 

On  thee  I  call ! 

Mute,  lady,  mute ! 

Mute,  lady,  mute 
To  love's  fond  suit  ? 


206  THE      SERENADE. 

I  '11  not  complain, 
Since  underneath  thy  balmy  breath 

I  may  remain 
One  brief  hour  more  ere  I  seek  death 

On  battle  plain ! 

Mute,  lady,  mute ! 

Sleep,  lady,  sleep ! 

While  watch  I  keep 

Till  dawn  of  day : 
But  o'er  the  wold  now  morning  cold 

Shines  icy  gray ; 
"While  the  plain  gleams  with  steel  and  gold, 

And  chargers  neigh ! 

Sleep,  lady,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  lady,  sleep ! 

Nor  wake  to  weep 

For  heart-struck  me : 
These  trumpets  knell  my  last  farewell 

To  love  and  thee ! 
When  next  they  sound,  't  will  be  to  tell 

I  died  for  thee ! 

Sleep,  lady,  sleep ! 


COULD  LOVE  IMPART. 

COULD  love  impart, 

By  nicest  art, 
To  speechless  rocks  a  tongue, — 

Their  theme  would  be, 

Beloved,  of  thee, — 
Thy  beauty,  all  their  song. 

And,  clerklike,  then, 

With  sweet  amen, 
Would  echo  from  each  hollow 

Reply  all  day ; 

While  gentle  fay, 
With  merry  whoop,  would  follow. 

Had  roses  sense  " 

On  no  pretence 
Would  they  their  buds  unroll ; 

For,  could  they  speak, 

'T  was  from  thy  cheek 
Then*  daintiest  blush  they  stole. 

Had  lilies  eyes, 
With  glad  surprise, 


208  COULD     LOVE      IMPART. 

They  'd  own  themselves  outdone, 
When  thy  pure  brow 
And  neck  of  snow, 

Gleamed  in  the  morning  sun. 

Could  shining  brooks, 

By  amorous  looks 
Be  taught  a  voice  so  rare, 

Then,  every  sound 

That  murmured  round, 
Would  whisper,  '  Thou  art  fair ! ' 

Could  winds  be  fraught 

With  pensive  thought 
At  midnight's  solemn  hour, 

Then  every  wood, 

In  gleeful  mood, 
Would  own  thy  beauty's  power  I 

And  could  the  sky 

Behold  thine  eye, 
So  filled  with  love  and  light, 

In  jealous  haste, 

Thou  soon  wert  placed 
To  star  the  cope  of  Night! 


THE  PARTING. 


O  !  is  it  thus  we  part, 
And  thus  we  say  farewell, 
As  if  in  neither  heart 
Affection  e'er  did  dwell  ? 
And  is  it  thus  we  sunder 
Without  or  sigh  or  tear, 
As  if  it  were  a  wonder 
We  e'er  held  other  dear? 

We  part  upon  the  spot, 
With  cold  and  clouded  brow, 
Where  first  it  was  our  lot 
To  breathe  love's  fondest  vow ! 
The  vow  both  then  did  tender 
Within  this  hallowed  shade,  — 
That  vow,  we  now  surrender, 
Heart-bankrupts  both  are  made ! 

Thy  hand  is  cold  as  mine, 
As  lustreless  thine  eye ; 
15 


210  THE     PARTING. 

Thy  bosom  gives  no  sign. 
That  it  could  ever  sigh ! 
Well,  well !  adieu 's  soon  spoken, 
'T  is  but  a  parting  phrase, 
Yet  said,  I  fear,  heart-broken 
"We  '11  live  our  after  days ! 

Thine  eye  no  tear  will  shed, 
Mine  is  as  proudly  dry ; 
But  many  an  aching  head 
Is  ours  before  we  die  ! 
From  pride  we  both  can  borrow,  — 
To  part  we  both  may  dare,  — 
But  the  heart-break  of  to-morrow, 
Nor  vou  nor  I  can  bear ! 


LOVE'S  DIET. 


TELL  me,  fair  maid,  tell  me  truly, 

How  should  infant  love  be  fed ; 

If  with  dewdrops,  shed  so  newly 

On  the  bright  green,  clover  blade ; 
Or,  with  roses  plucked  in  July, 
And  with  honey  liquored  ? 
O,  no  !  O,  no  ! 
Let  roses  blow, 

And  dew-stars  to  green  blade  cling : 
Other  fare, 
More  light  and  rare, 
Befits  that  gentlest  nursling. 

Feed  him  with  the  sigh  that  rushes 

'Twixt  sweet  lips,  whose  muteness  speaks, 

With  the  eloquence  that  flushes 

All  a  heart's  wealth  o'er  soft  cheeks ; 

Feed  him  with  a  world  of  blushes, 
And  the  glance  that  shuns,  yet  seeks : 


212  LOVE'S    DIET. 

For  't  is  with  food, 

So  light  and  good, 
That  the  Spirit  child  is  fed ; 

And  with  the  tear 

Of  joyous  fear 
That  the  small  Elf's  liquored. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  WIND. 


MOURNFULLY  !  O,  mournfully 

This  midnight  wind  doth  sigh, 
Like  some  sweet  plaintive  melody 

Of  ages  long  gone  by : 
It  speaks  a  tale  of  other  years,  — 

Of  hopes  that  bloomed  to  die,  — 
Of  sunny  smiles  that  set  in  tears, 

And  loves  that  mouldering  lie  ! 

Mournfully !  O,  mournfully 

This  midnight  wind  doth  moan ; 
It  stirs  some  chord  of  memory 

In  each  dull  heavy  tone : 
The  voices  of  the  much-loved  dead 

Seem  floating  thereupon,  — 
AH,  all  my  fond  heart  cherished 

Ere  death  had  made  it  lone. 

Mournfully !  O,  mournfully 
This  midnight  wind  doth  swell, 


2  i-i  THE     MIDNIGHT     WIND. 

With,  its  quaint  pensive  minstrelsy 

Hope's  passionate  farewell 
To  the  dreamy  joys  of  early  years, 

Ere  yet  grief's  canker  fell 
On  the  heart's  bloom,  —  ay !  well  may  tears 

Start  at  that  parting  knell ! 


LINES    GIVEN  TO   A   FRIEND   A   DAY   OR  TWO    BE- 
FORE THE  DECEASE  OF  THE  WRITER. 

OCTOBER,  1835. 


WHEN  I  "beneath  the  cold  red  earth  am  sleeping, 

Life's  fever  o'er, 
Will  there  for  me  be  any  bright  eye  weeping 

That  I  'm  no  more  ? 
Will  there  be  any  heart  still  memory  keeping 

Of  heretofore  ? 

When  the  great  winds  through  leafless  forests  rushing, 

Sad  music  make ; 
AVhen  the  swollen  streams,  o'er  crag  and  gully  gushing, 

Like  full  hearts  break, 
Will  there  then  one  whose  heart  despair  is  crushing 

Mourn  for  my  sake  ? 

When  the  bright  sun  upon  that  spot  is  shining 

With  purest  ray, 
And  the  small  flowers  their  buds  and  blossoms  twining, 

Burst  through  that  clay ; 
Will  there  be  one  still  on  that  spot  repining 

Lost  hopes  all  day  ? 


216  LINE?     GIVEN     TO     A     FRIEND. 

When  no  star  twinkles  with  its  eye  of  glory, 

On  that  low  mound ; 
And  wintry  storms  have  with  then:  ruins  hoary 

Its  loneness  crowned; 
Will  there  be  then  one  versed  in  misery's  story 

Pacing  it  round? 

It  may  be  so, — but  this  is  selfish  sorrow 

To  ask  such  meed,  — 
A  weakness  and  a  wickedness  to  borrow 

From  hearts  that  bleed, 
The  waitings  of  to-day,  for  what  to-morrow 

Shall  never  need. 

Lay  me  then  gently  in  my  narrow  dwelling 

Thou  gentle  heart ; 
And  though  thy  bosom  should  with  grief  be  swelling.. 

Let  no  tear  start ; 
It  were  in  vain, — for  Time  hath  long  been  knelling  — 

Sad  one,  depart ! 


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